Four Part Dissonance
I've watched this house settle
like a slow sigh, the graying
resemblance between us growing
with each cicada symphony,
each winter wind, its blue voice
through the pines so akin to creeksong,
I don't know the difference after dark.
The farm road follows my fence line
west of the woods. Neighbors wave
as they run errands to the city,
which creeps closer like the wildcat
whose tracks I saw on the creekbank.
I could almost hear the crouched whisper
of its drop
from branches hanging over my head—
the bone-shattering crunch.
Earthmovers swarm like summer locusts,
and bury the old road
beneath eight sun-dazed lanes of asphalt.
Sounds of traffic drown
the tumbling voice of the creek,
the swoosh of a blue-norther hurtling
in from the plains, howls
of coyotes on full-moon nights.
Creatures of the woods and fields move
closer to the house. Dread flashes
in their eyes in light that spills
across the threshold. Only I know,
the inevitable embrace
of silence will hold us again.
Copyright © 2004
Glenda Cooper. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED