Silent for the Dry Season

A poem


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.