In the cool of the morning, I cup my hands to my ears and listen to wind in the grass, the hum of insects, the distant moans of a dove.---Dave Bonta, The Morning Porch, 07-05-12
It is indelible. Her skirt billowing in the wind,
the grass grown brown in the heat of summer.
Was she miming some kind of laughter? A shriek?
She ran through the wantonly burnt bushes
downhill, lads whistling for the wind to vault
their kites, the wind rustling a murmur of grass.
He will linger on that hillock to watch a sundown
form long shadows. She will not be there again.
But the distant moan of a dove brings her back
like the hum of that giggling lass, straddling him
to coax a pledge of unfading, flaming, gripping
love though the mountains crumble over them.
They are cool mornings like these that force
quiet sounds to roar like the onset of a rainstorm,
or the echoed lovers’ moans he’d want to run from.
These quiet sounds pursue him now like hounds
scurrying for the hunt. Like ghosts of old memories.
These are the quiet sounds that have turned loud.
—Albert B. Casuga