The branches were all but emptied of leaves,
The air was all but bare of phrases. A few
Words hung on like lingering motes in the light.
They weren’t shy; they weren’t worn out.
They were all that was there. Creek talk,
Beige oak leaf carpet, branch tangles,
And something strange, an occasional
Thump or rumble, up from the ground, not
Thunder, not the rifle crack of a hunter,
Not the pound of deer hooves running.
A muted but definite bass drum of a bump,
A bump that could be felt as well as heard,
Several of them, from some distance south,
A puzzle. Detonations, maybe? Construction?
The beginning of the end signaled by bombs,
Distant bombs? Then not again. Sun sunk.
Creek talk continued unaltered alterations.
The air was all but bare of phrases as the light
Of the afternoon left the area. No clouds,
No thunder, no bumps, no beasts, no wonder.
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