How calming the fading songs
of birds at mid-morning merging
into the edges of silence lingering,
waiting for the songs to end.
So all beginnings wait for the ending
of what has invited them to arrive,
the certainty of the constancy of change,
the sky above, the ground below, the middle
like some center point where the fulcrum
leverages silently what has been into what
is to be. I often wait for that moment when
song goes into silence, silence into song.
I don’t know when it happens but words
and rhythms come as if they’ve
been waiting for just the right moment,
whispering, “We’ve been here all along.”
-Byron Hoot
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