Peeling back the layers of silence,
the silence of songbirds, grass-whispers,
and the rushy quiet of the poplars,
there is still silence.
Peeling back the layers of movement,
lizard dart, bird flash,
boughs swaying in time to the slow flap flap of the heron,
and the earth still turns.
I wonder, do I love this solitude,
the ever-changing scene beyond the window,
the summer-long crunch of dry grass beneath my feet,
the berried and bedecked autumn trees?
Walking, we start a hare.
I watch it lope away, unhurried,
while dog still snuffs the empty briar patch.
Sun washes the last haystacks,
and in the dappling of the dancing leaves,
I see the hare hop merrily across the stream.
Perhaps this is all that matters.
And that you will be home this evening
to watch the shadows creep across the meadow.