Before the Gale
Below the edge of the storm, a quietness,
a silence is shaken from the trees,
from the shingles,
from the long ears of field rabbits.
There is rain in the air, a downpour not yet arrived,
it is only a rumor a hush beyond the hedgerow.
Mountains are snowing in the distance,
the sky is falling in ice waves in the distance,
yet that distance is mute.
Here at the edge of uproar, there is a great stillness,
a silence louder than a cocked gun,
a quiet more clamorous
than a fledglings red open beak
as it waits, and waits, and waits.
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2020
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