Waiting... Poem by Patrick L Kalahar

Birds fill the freshly leafed trees.
Leaves and feathers vibrate
in unison with the wind.

The birds chirp and trill
in high, rapid notes
punctuated with longer measured

deeper responses. The crows
and jays complain in voices sharp
and shrill with grievance.

Everywhere is life and sound.
Cacophonies in magic compliance
to the rhythms of the world.

That is,

Almost everywhere. Within the
living wood, death stands rooted.
A dark and rotting thing

With branches like fleshless
arms and fingers grasping
at something it cannot reach.

With weathered bones
Darkened in the scorching sun.
Bones like tarnished bars

Of an empty cage. Keeping life
and hope at a malevolent distance.
Waiting … waiting for something.

Why doesn't it fall? Overpowered
in the wind, or sunk into earth
from its own immense dead weight,

the birds and squirrels seem to ask
at a safe, green distance.
I, too, ask at my own green distance.

But I, too, in a perilous time,
am waiting; waiting for something.
Even amongst the good and hopeful sounds

I am listening to the sinister silence