Suppose 

Suppose the limber, breathless 
bend of warmth on the wind
never gave way to its grace 
sucked from its breath – life 
suddenly bound to torpor 
stillness and sterility. 

I suppose that the silence 
meddles your mind, and its 
meaning when the rush and 
rustle above vanquishes to 
the ground – stomped and blown. 

It forces a sound within, perhaps 
muted at first, but a growing 
menace all the same that you wish to
ignore – more easy to do, you find, 
when the clatter of animation abuzz in 
the air with perpetual bounds and chirps. 

Suppose, now, you listen.