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.