Early morning … predawn.
December rain is falling.
The wind is murmuring;
I try my hand
It’s hard to follow
the conversation. Truly
an outsider, I listen
hoping to learn.
No stars light the darkness,
there is no sun. The moon
cedes dominion to haze.
A plane makes a statement with contrails…
all nonverbal communication.
There seems to be a plan in place.
The participants seem to understand it.
Everything is quiet, calm.
Maybe we should stick to pantomime.
It’s the verbal that causes trouble.
The wind is whispering sweet nuthins’
to the trees. They nod complicitly.
I can only guess
at the conspiracy.
The rain, soft and misty,
is clearly speaking but its sound
is absorbed by the thirsty earth.
I assume they speak of peace.
A sudden whoosh proves
I misunderstood the calm before the storm.
Seems everything has its cost. That’s the trouble
with translation; so much of the nuance