A pair of goldfinches in the tall bull
thistle— only the female eats in silence.
Some people, entering a room, automatically turn on
the radio, the tv: almost as if afraid of silence.
I wish I had a porch or balcony where I could sit
until the noise of traffic dials down to silence.
Thrice now we’ve sighted a young night heron— clatter
of the dustbin lid behind the fence, then silence.
My friend texts me about the moon on his drive home:
I imagine the ribbon of coast, water liquid as silence.
Too many times like passing ships, at both ends of missed
opportunities. Why can’t we touch at the center, in silence?
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.