EVENING. LATE MAY.
Day fades and
the racket of trucks and backhoes
is gone
human noise abates at last
and the patch of forest
wedged
between new construction site
and old sad pond
fills up with evensong:
the Wood Thrush has come
to bless our world.
One phrase at a time:
the question first-
Are you there?
then a pause
almost too long
to be borne…
At last the answer
steady as an acolyte:
I am here.
GERALDINE ZETZEL POETRY 