Still air, no breathe or branch
moving, thick sky promising rain.
On the road nearby, a car or truck
revs then ra-rooms away. Mostly,
its red-winged blackbird, robin,
mourning dove, sometimes,
a beagle bays, then settles.
The lilt of female voices passes,
pools on the green, and then the
squeak and squeal of screen doors,
slam. Desk lamp lit, fingers fumble
over morning keys. Each of us creating,
deleting, listening lightly, cabined solo,
fevered with story.
3 thoughts on "SCREEN DOORS"
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I really enjoyed this. I felt transported to this place and soundscape.
This feels as if it’s about a writers’ retreat. Sounds heavenly.
I especially like “a beagle bays”