Mid-September Hush

No sound, not even a drip
from the limp garden hose.
The quiet shadow of my hat
moves closer to my old plastic
chair by the spent marigolds.

The rows of green onion tops
tilt the same noiseless way.
Crickets chirp waits ’til later.
Later still, an owl’s breathy hoot,
the caught rabbit’s shriek.

Soon ice will blow a frozen
breath on my shivering neck,
but not while that oblivious
chickadee, toes grasping a bent
dogwood branch, is still singing.

Margaret Robinson

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