 | James Callahan Nov 3 | There is a sound I heard just outside
the backdoor, that must always be
there when a breeze blows across
autumn prairie grass dried and stiff,
already asleep for winter, quiet until
rustled, when the cicadas singing fades
without reason or rhythm but that one,
lone male screams on calling for his her,
bravely, awkwardly he sounds a
single voice until realizing, assumedly
without embarrassment but instinct
as all others have stopped; and then
there is only the soft rustling of dry
prairie grass in a quiet hidden under
missing centuries of Illinois wild
cultivated into submission just
outside the backdoor and a breeze
reclaims what can only be heard
when listening for the quiet. | | | |  | You can also reply to this email to leave a comment. | | | | |
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