there is no news this morning

the red plastic radio

beside the aloe vera plant on the

kitchen window sill is silent

snow pats the window with white-gloved hands

the eleven-year-old across from me

munches toasted white bread between

teeth that need braces

crumbs clink like

cinders on glass across

the oak table

the battery-powered clock on the wall

ticks, measuring hours in millimeters

pine in the woodstove pops long red

cracks into the glass-smooth morning

east of me, a farmer’s dog yips into snow muffled air;

west of me, his voice

his voice

echoes from a white canyon wall

I think of how they tell us now

the smallest building-block of the

universe is sound;

at the center of each atom,


a horse in a neighbor’s barn clods

an iron-shod hoof against his stall wall

impatient for his breakfast

Morning rises away in waves

alive with meaning

yet so filled with silence



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