The birds are quiet in the forest.
The hemp grows tall
The music of the streams themselves
Holds a silence in its womb.
The breath of brittle grasses
Has paused.
Even the flies have ceased
Their restless seeking.
And the yellow-bodied wasps
Have come to rest.
Only the rusty orange butterfly settles
With its dusty wings
On a quiet blue-grey flower
Hardly bending to it’s weight.
The haze of heat hovers
Over distant hills
Not quite like its cousin, mist.
More portentous, more distrusting
Of what must be.
Something lingers around our edges
Questioning. “Will there be?”
And “Watch for us”.
The heat holds some promise
Yet some menace in its breast.
Embrace me.
The sweat is salty
Yet so sweet.
The silent yearning of the forest
Rises like a memory
Of of some long forgotten scent
Through the thick green of the leaves
And the still light.
