I
listen and try to identify sounds I hear
and
recognize even though I cannot see,
too far from sight for me.
I
surmise the shape and size of cicadas
chirping
from the trees in a late summer’s
evening
of rural Nebraska.
I
picture vividly the train whistling over miles
which
separate it from me through the darkness
of
night in Camp Point, Illinois.
I
know the distant rumble of thunder before
the
storm approaches over the corn fields of
an
Iowa farm.
I
determine the resonant whir of the semi’s
diesel
engine in St. Louis shifting gears
blocks
before it comes into view.
And
in New Mexico, I drift off into a restful
night’s
sleep as coyotes call to one another
in
the moonlight along the Rio Grande.
And
a crashing in the room next door which
abruptly
awakens me, shattering the silence of
night.
Where am I, and what in hell was that?
Chris
Hanch 7-27-19
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