NOT THE SONG OF BIRDS

From the front door open

to an overcast summer, comes

not the songs of birds

but the distant hum of traffic, ceaseless,

from the highway; strange

how it comes like the waves

long-travelling encountering

the shores of seas, an ocean,

in my memory. When

you stand there,

at the crossroads, one

or two travels cast in moving metal

at the long stretch of asphalt

dissecting the valley

at the same time; rarely

more, as this is a time

of faning, yet,

here in the distance,

slice of standing woods

between my open front door,

my ears, my mind,

and the artery of this waning

civilization, this diminishing society,

and it hums like the waves

encountering a shore

in the Adriatic, in the Atlantic,

the Mediterranean,

or the blood still circling

in my veins, humming

to the tune of ancient seas

raised at mountain tops.

04.06.2025

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