It was so quiet
you could hear cows
walking on mud

pigs chewing wheat.
For a moment I wanted
as a souvenir

the certain stillness
of winter trees
of nearly everything–

but the cloud began
its parting, its rising–
smoke out the barrel

of a gun, aiming at you
an open door,
begging you to hide.

(originally published in Impspired, Fall 2021)