The glass doesn’t break but something was shattered by it… I can no longer distinguish the places where the birds called from or the cries of my cat on the screen porch. I wonder if the dirt knows the depth of its own voice but dirt is piled upon more dirt and that question is quieted once more by the stare of the days construction agenda… yellow boxes buzzing by as blades of grass brush their metal sides, whispering a message no longer heard.

The water pools on the leaves and its stillness is broken by the rumbles of dump trucks down the road… how can the dirt they’re moving make that type of BOOM, reminiscent of recent thunderstorms.