A light rush of drips, fading,
Like sounds of the man-made.
A low hum, growing, growing, louder;
At last it slows, turns, grows louder.

All silence, minus a feathered creature.
Pages of a book, turning, examined.
Skin gathers intent interest, studied.
I adjust in my seat, and continue.

A pencil, rocking to and fro;
Distraction ensues, causes for prose.
His book shifts, slightly, breathing.
More low hums, some higher.

It kicks into, idles, generating;
Cold is met with sealed door.
The last remains of thought
Protrude and examine sounds.

Leave a Reply