I.
Noise is not noise here—rather sound. Small sound. Natural.
She is small in this small sound.
Her ear to the country soil. Quiet pressed upon her.
Exposure to a calm only in the untouched.
A heart beating into the land.
Reverberating back to the heart’s ear.
II.
Noise is noise here.
A rush of life moments to life moments.
Memory blurs to a smudge of chaos and happenings.
You forget to breathe. You forget to cry.
You forget that your heart has a solid thump under your muscle.
Between two a.m. and four a.m. the city quiets.
If you are awake, put your right palm on your left breast. Hear the blood in you.