Walking in a Crowded Field
A dog barks in the chill,
a half block away.
Geese plot their dawn
flight in committee.
The lone mallard paddles
a too-large pond.
I pace the park alone. Twined
legs will consummate a sunny day.
Playground chains clink flat
tones against galvanized posts.
Strangers don’t hear morning
through bud-filled ears.
Your elite message system
collects static and dust motes.
The restaurant sings and chants
to a silhouette in the mirror.
An empty place setting
clatters—no ritual blessing.
Water rings accuse
from an antique table, emptied.
Eggs incubate under thickets.
Echoes pad softly in shadow,
the snap of steps lost.
How silent is June.
/ / /
A revision, to this year-old poem:
Echoes and Reverberation
How silent is June: eggs incubate quietly.
The water rings on an antique table accuse
while a helicopter makes a beeline life flight overhead.
An empty place setting clatters — no ritual blessing.
Playground chains clink flat tones against galvanized posts
and strangers don’t hear “morning” through bud-filled ears.
A restaurant sings and chants, reflected in the bar mirror
and intertwined legs consummate a surprise sunny day.
Your elite message system collects static and dust motes.
A lone mallard paddles a too-large pond
and geese plot their flight in committee.
A dog barks in the cold, one darkened block away.
/ / /