(It’s what the passing bumble bee
leaves on a hot summer day)

It’s Not the Sound

It’s not the sound
Not the gentle rustling of leaves
Not the wind whistling through winter cracks
Not the splashing waves
Not the drone of constant traffic
Not the normal busyness of mind and conversation

It’s the ceasing
when the rain quits
when the cricket pauses from its chirping
It’s an interruption of the dove’s gentle cooing
It’s what the passing bumble bee leaves on a hot summer day
It’s a fading away of a prairie night train

It’s the silence left
the sudden hushing, a stilling over
It’s the dropping off, a falling away
For a moment the ear stops receiving
a chance crossing of paths, coincidence, serendipitous
It’s a rare state of muteness

Illusive, attention captured by absence
the world grasps the significance only
when the cricket resumes its chirping
the distant hum of traffic, the train
return of the wind, the waves
the dove and passing conversations.

(This poem is available as part of a publication called Mother Nature Easts Her Kind now available at Neil’s website at garvie.ca)