the heavy, menacing tread of the lone jogger,
the scented solitude of the wild cherry blossom
down by the water.
a silence overpowering, thunderous.
undaunted gulls shrieking about trivial things,
ripping through it –
ear-piercing, alive.
two-dimensional human shapes in the distance
revealing the magnitude of the landscape:
floodplains and clouds huddling over and thickets and brown grasses and beavers
hidden from sight
the musical chirping of warblers,
the regular knocking of woodpeckers.
a sprig, a bursting bud, a thin green leaf timidly exploding
as spring self-isolates amid
this prodigious heaving and gasping,
this fear of inhaling
punctuated by the scampering dogs.
industrious zeal grinding to a halt.
how slow the river flows.
how pale the grey sands.
it feels like Good Friday without the church bells.
Copyright A. Sepi 2020. All rights reserved
Writer Between Worlds 