The birds have gone and the air sizzles
with quiet, a vacuum turning stone
to putty and leaves to woeful rags.
We cower indoors except for workers
still fixing, tending, installing
our air, our artificial artiface
to the world, cool and temperate,
a hum of breath bringing cool.
No other sound dares poke through
our thoughts, cocooned as we are
from an outside through which
we cannot walk. A wind picks
its time randomly, intruding
on our motionless stasis.
Even the lizards hide.
Copyrighted by the author