Listening,
an ear cocked towards
the moon, to this:
gunfire, birdsong, sirens,
Voices, laughter, violins, roosters.
the night my mother wept.
a breeze in the pines.
the hiss of faraway traffic.
The roar of waves
and lions and stadiums.
and some things are missing,
fading away:
dial tones, ice cream trucks,
the chorus of frogs
and toads, disappearing
somewhere, everyday.
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