Rain drips down the wooden fence
Leaving dark scars on its face
As the trees lean over waiting to change
This pre-color time of year
When we ache for change to come
Cool air swirling around us
With just enough hint of summer
To remember it
I hear the voice of winter
In the distant rumble of surf
And in the altered sound of traffic
And the sudden quiet
Of end of season brings to the seashore,
These things stand out against
The usually hectic soundscape
So that they seem loud
When they are not,
Our lives are like that,
Loudest in the lulls,
When we can hear ourselves thinking
The way we hear the tick of a clock
Always there, but never obvious
As we search for meaning,
No more nor less than they ever were,
The ghost in the machine
The moving parts
We do not wish to know about
But get consumed with
When all else falls silent.
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