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)