This is the way the world ends/Not with a bang but a whimper. ---From “The Hollow Men” by T.S. Eliot
By sundown, they will be gone, like long shadows
on my porch walls. All the fierce singing done,
what remains is the quiet murmur of the bourn.
Its stream will not return, nor will the swallows.
But while they flitted from tree tops to broken
perches, did they not cry out their bravest songs?
These are our elm trees, these are our willows,
we pieced our homes here together, we roosted.
At the bluffs, we find the edge of the woods muted
now. Soon, even the cackling gulls will dive a final
swoon, catch the last crayfish lost on boulders left
bare by ebbing tide that must also leave its shore.
It is troths like these that will not last, nothing
endures. The silence can only become a whimper.
---Albert B. Casuga
Prompt: This morning it hits me: how silent the woods have become now with most of the migrants done singing their fierce but temporary attachments.---Dave Bonta, The Morning Porch, 07-29-11