hiss

The swell and tide of fields,
the tension of the trees in line along the summered ridge
where branch grates on new-touched bark
within the simmer and leaf-fold hiss

Blued copper stream
of leaves seething in the rush and
frantic of the scattered wind,
the flicking of the long grass, the
saying of the rain in mud wood

Pure, the plane’s sound of managed air
where pressure dulls the lower sounds - a constancy
above the clouds, whose great columns
will be circled round, in rapt attention
to each change of sound

The slim whisper that comes from the sand
and turns to a rant in the cresting;
the water that pulls you away
to each new rolling
and hits the inner drum so hard,
that still, when lying in the moon silence of the night,
when the white owl dives
at the glistening mouse,
it hisses there