Hammer and Anvil
The road disappears into the forest,
branches meeting overhead to form
a tunnel. The birds are quiet,
the scurrying animals are resting
and still. The air does not move
in the trees, nor down the narrow
lane. It is silent but for the gurgle
of the far-off river. But there are certain
sounds that the adult ear cannot hear,
that are beyond the capabilities of our
intricate structures to observe,
or perhaps the guttural profanities
of life and labor wear away our ability
to hear such sweet and innocent music.
The sound of laughing is, after all,
a melody of church bells in comparison
to the hawking spittle of the burgermeister,
the mercantile prattle of the seller,
the honeyed slather of lovers.
He laughs, another chokes.
Leathern boots tread soft on grass,
kick up the little dust that can be
ignored as rilling wind.
A thin pipe could well be a bantam,
could be a sparrow, whose fall,
it is said, does not go unnoticed.
The road disappears, yes, and all
upon it. The forest swallows it up,
like a tongue retracted, like a
thread wound up, like something
lured and lost.