AM (1 day ago)
I pay little attention to the sound
of falling leaves, birdsong, wind
in the trees. I listen for the rising
sound from the ground before I turn
or lean my head so eyes and ears
can confirm that what I hear is what
I see. I have been hunting over 40
years and have come to trust
the sounds from the ground.
It’s affected me metaphysically. Confirmed
my belief in empty tombs, rebirth
from the earth, the paradise of life,
suspicious of one with the promise
of more harmonious sounds.
Poem by Byron Hoot
Byron Hoot was born and raised in Morgantown, West Virginia, lived there until he went to college – a twelve year excursion. Now he lives in northwestern Pennsylvania. . . still in Appalachia. He has recently had poems in The Watershed Journal, Tobeco Literary Arts Journal, on www.northsouthappal.com/appalachian-literature.html and in Pennessence. He is a co-founder of The Tamarack Writers (1974) and The Fernwood Writers Retreat (2019). Proprietor of Hootnhowlpoetry.com.