Only Poem by Esther Kinsky

Only yesterday
it seems to me we were going
into the thickets and - the peaceable
folds being brought to silence -
holding still we bided
our time for
what might stir perhaps
the pied flycatcher in her weeds over
our heads the faint gleam
of an armour-clad beetle in the leaves
the humpbacked caterpillar
on the trunk but all held still
with us falling silent
biding their time
for what word could be found for the
absence of all sound
on the inhospitable path.