Whoever says that chinks in the wall whistle,
a hearth-stone purrs, and the fire in the stone sings
would say wasps and bees and flies and fleas
are a choir of angels—
Wind
is the residue
of great distance
and sun
Whoever supposed the country is quiet
never sat with a halo of cicadas in August.
Then at full power are all the guardians of racket.
Sunset
consumes the sky
but never
the wind
Whoever imagines homesteading was
for the women a matter of managing
silence never eavesdropped on Kansas.
Copyright © 2007 Jannett Highfill. All rights reserved.