Listen, do you hear it too,
a gentle prodding in the wind,
a whispered subtle coaxing voice.
Undisguised it speaks to me,
its words the faint movement of air,
distant thunder trembling the soul.
It has visited me before, has it you,
haunting through day and night,
obtusely, yet a clarion horn of alarm.
We strain to understand the meaning,
tossing the covers of our minds,
wallowing in our musky night sweats.
There, you hear it, what can we do,
it is not the voice of a god, or devil,
nor an angel, but the sound of a gnat.
Softly carried on the horizon’s wings,
it comes when you least expect a visit,
then with talon feet it clasps your heart.
Speaking true when ever we pause to listen,
I shudder at the thought, we may not answer,
The fertile dirt lays silent and waits.
©2013, Donald Harbour