On Leaving a Noisy Room

On Leaving a Noisy Room

Getting to that
silent place
sometimes takes
a storm,
raucous rain,
thumping thunder
late at night,
a river rushing
to expel itself--
I go out to listen.
On the underside
of a white porch roof
is a small muddled
swallow’s nest
silently wedged
in a corner
empty.
My thoughts rush
up to it,
settle into
its hand-cupped
caress,
and rest.

12 Mar 00

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