The Encroaching Silence

The grasses keep quiet, sharing no secrets,
Though they hold many. The man with the sunglasses,
And the birds with the black heads,
Whistle, as though to appear nonchalant.

I can’t keep my hands steady.

The park is growing still. Even the ants,
With their snowmen bodies,
Have packed up, have taken back
Their pieces of a broken feast
To the queen, who has a milky eye.

I sit, shifting, on a bench.

Night approaches with a rumble
Not unlike the sound of a jet engine,
Turned off for unknown reasons.

The tree watches a silent movie,
Laughing to itself, crying to itself,
And never showing it.