Silent for the Dry Season

 

So little noise here; sound

becomes a feeling. My own blood

a humming constant.

 

I sit by a rock-edged streambed, silent

for the dry season.

 

In the distance, Pika Creek

hisses like rain.

 

The mist slows.

 

Up on the western ridgetop

a slight whisper of motion,

 

like the ssshhhh

of breeze through treetops,

 

in this place where there are no trees.