Still Life


It’s past noontime and birds
speak a welter of whistle
warble honk and tweet.
Robins chirp mellifluous,
jays shrill and shriek,
crows jeer, squawking
at the shallow fields.

There are no human voices
only birds and echoes
on the wind, unclear echoes
dispossessed of breath and skin,
carried in the breeze, echoes
of some remove.

The trees are spare of leaves,
traffic a distant hushing past

though two wheels turning
in the lane crack loud
like breaking rock
and gravel patters jaggedly
as scattered bone.
The birds retreat then stop,
their small heads cocked.
Dust almost settles.

The stones repose in intermittent
rows unkempt and leaning slightly
down as if impatient with
the ground and this vast
matinee of sky.

Report Story

byAngeline© 12 comments/ 2857 views/ 1 favorites

Share the love

Similar stories

Report a Bug

1 Pages:1

Please Rate This Submission:

Please Rate This Submission:

  • 1
  • 2
  • 3
  • 4
  • 5
Please wait
by Anonymous

If the above comment contains any ads, links, or breaks Literotica rules, please report it.

There are no recent comments (12 older comments) - Click here to add a comment to this poem or Show more comments or Read All User Comments (12)

Add a

Post a public comment on this submission.

Post comment as (click to select):

Preview comment

Forgot your password?

Please wait

Change picture

Your current user avatar, all sizes:

Default size User Picture  Medium size User Picture  Small size User Picture  Tiny size User Picture

You have a new user avatar waiting for moderation.

Select new user avatar: