What is it?
It is noisy.
Isn’t it always?
It’s the precipice.
The wind howls its siren call.
The waters, foaming to the rocks
Gulls screeching, circling.
Should I go to the greens?
Why the greens?
So I can hear the leaves whisper.
The twigs crackle to moonsong
And night souls brush by trees.
Wouldn’t that be a little scary?
Why? Is that your notion of fear?
I see yours’ is the rocks.
To be continued...
(So we'd like to think.)
(Penned Dec 16, 2010)
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