Thin sticks walk through moonlight
a leaf rolls forward and backwards
trying to sooth the wind
but the breeze is not yet ready for calm slumber
A motor rumbles into earshot in the distance
it resonates and hums against the canyon walls
The girl hidden in the den
punctuates this with her stammered silent echoes
her hollow sobs ask a question that nothing can answer
not the sticks or leaf
not the breeze
not the moon
echo 1
Published
The Rambling Locksmith 