Hammer and Anvil

The road disappears into the forest,

branches meeting overhead to form

a tunnel. The birds are quiet, 

the scurrying animals are resting

and still. The air does not move

in the trees, nor down the narrow

lane. It is silent but for the gurgle

of the far-off river. But there are certain

sounds that the adult ear cannot hear,

that are beyond the capabilities of our

intricate structures to observe, 

or perhaps the guttural profanities

of life and labor wear away our ability

to hear such sweet and innocent music.

The sound of laughing is, after all,

a melody of church bells in comparison

to the hawking spittle of the burgermeister,

the mercantile prattle of the seller,

the honeyed slather of lovers.

He laughs, another chokes.

Leathern boots tread soft on grass,

kick up the little dust that can be

ignored as rilling wind. 

A thin pipe could well be a bantam, 

could be a sparrow, whose fall, 

it is said, does not go unnoticed.

The road disappears, yes, and all 

upon it. The forest swallows it up, 

like a tongue retracted, like a

thread wound up, like something

lured and lost.