Into the Silent World

Mary Nork

April sunlight augers into snow

                  plates of ice shift, then crack.

Above the pines a racket of hawks

         and jays trumpets this chink

                          between winter and spring,

                  while far downstream, snowmelt creeps

                                            like crow-claws,

                                            blackening chunks of andesite

                                            along the bed.


A frog lies dormant in the mud

and I listen for the play of droplets against the rock.

              The frog twitches.

               Legs extend.  It drifts, sleek and green under the thinning film of ice,


     deaf to the song of the current,

     numb to the bliss of its pull.