…wild silence

33.
The wild silence comes with the roaring noise of thought, with words that run and run and run and revel in their cycle, their impatience to go nowhere, their insistence to be heard. The wild silence is neither patient nor restless, loud or hushed, careless or yearning. She knows but will not speak, her emerald gaze enough for the roaring noise of thought to see itself in its own mirrorball, spinning and fractured, glossy with illusory promise. The wild silence shivers her leaves, a branch dipping to touch the mirrorball, slow, slow, slow

to stillness

to space

to listen

where the sky sounds are; feather flight and billow drift

here

cool grass against skin, the brush of breath

here

bird calls travelling leaf-light or breast-felt

here

with the flow of blood and sap and river rain

here

in the quiet cradle

the wild silence

of being