and then a bird announces
his dis-silence, throwing out
his request into the waiting woods,
but sill there’s stillness devouring
his words because no bird answers him.
The silence that presses in and
seamlessly fills every space
is an illusion-
we don’t have ears in tune enough
to hear the music in the sunlight
falling on the leaf.
One degree of resistance less, and
the fires of friction begin.
The sky is blue above the clouds
to where the blueness touches empty
beyond our fires of friction, and
with the distance become the only true silence-
no voice to answer in return.