by Joyce Sutphen
In the afternoon of summer, sounds
come through the window: a tractor
muttering to itself as it
pivots at the corner of the
hay field, stalled for a moment
as the green row feeds into the baler.
The wind slips a whisper behind
an ear; the noise of the highway
is like the dark green stem of a rose.
From the kitchen the blunt banging
of cupboard doors and wooden chairs
makes a lonely echo in the floor.
Somewhere, between the breeze
and the faraway sound of a train,
comes a line of birdsong, lightly
threading the heavy cloth of dream.