Stop.
Soak up the still silence.
Except that it is neither still
Nor silent.
Wind tumbles
The leaves of the trees.
Overhead in the branches, sounds
The pebble-in-a-still-pool languor
Of the bellbird,
The electric zit-zit
Of the rifleman.
Nearby, a small stream
Hisses over the rocks.
And from farther away
Comes the deep rumble
Of the river
Shaking the stone
As it crashes
Headlong
Down the mountain.
Robinne Weiss 