The harmony of nature
and the endless symphony
persued by barking dogs on clear cold nights
enables me to understand
the anger in a deep distant voice
periodically stopping for a rest
when a bird’s pitch soars to heights
out of the listener’s decible capacity.
The owner of the feathered peaking voice
returns the favor and collects puddles
of silence and calm
spilled by the angry one
in his hasty conclusions and fears.
She hangs her findings to dry
on clotheslines in the sky;
doing so she erects towers of stillness
and the wind doesn’t blow
but the plop, plop of the droplets puddling in dirt
echo off wood burned homes.