The walk around the neighborhood is strangely silent.
Cicadas have ceased their songs of warning.
Birds flock south on gentle winds
leaving the yard yearning for music.
Butterflies still sing with quiet wings
few can hear.
Gnats and flies loosely lie low
as caterpillars hold on tight
to leaves of flowers seeding through colder nights.
The angle of the sun has moved us
as we turn around a sun now calmed.
Its bright displays over too-hot days are over-done.
The silence grows as the cold days come on.
Longer shadows of neglect disclose
the weeds who hid in too-bright light.
We now face ever-longer nights.
Is this the calm before winter’s storms?
Are we watching the loss of every norm?
Or have we become so compliant
we fail to even notice the silence?
The neighborhood is strangely silent
as I keep vigil, and hold fast against violence.
Silence, silence. So much uneasy silence
one wants to scream and shout so loud
windows open wide in surprise
to see what all the fuss is about.
Footsteps march around the block.
Even they are too silent to unlock
the energy sapped by summer’s too-hot heat.
We are just too tired to compete
with the silence, silence. So much silence.
annarino writes 