It's not the shrill cry  

I thought it would be  

nor the great, crackling flame

escaping into the universe

(the soul leaving the body) 


Rather it's the mute-green frogs

idle by the pond all afternoon, 

the humidity which hasn't broken  

for several weeks, it's the moths, 

hundreds of them, climbing the bark of

scrub oak and fluttering there like

white, paper leaves all night

(too quiet to hear)