The faintest warble of the thrush comes
from deep in the woods,
even before light.
The tiniest warp in the cool air,
as if the sound was not apart
but deep within the cochleae.
Before joined by the raucous jay,
the trill of the junco,
the staccato drill of the chippie,
before the cock his strutting wail begins;
a reminder of how rare
silence is.
-Patricia Thrushart
http://patriciathrushart.com
Selected Poems & Photos by Seth M. Lewis
“When I Come Home” I get this feeling when I come home. It’s the feeling That I got- Today: when I crossed the Red River barreling toward Ja...
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