If in the Quiet

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i’ve learned

the quiet doesn’t mean

silence.

nothing shuts up

blue jays

cackling after the sun

rises above the pine tree line

just beyond the hay field.

even the sun

melting over the night-wet grass

like burning sugar

crackling awake the doe

to sprint across pell-mell

leaping into the dew fog

and gone.

i’ve learned

that quiet is–

so often–

LOUD.