There’s a sound that the
early autumn wind makes
through the cottonwoods
across the way (all dash and
whisper and sway) that is
the sound of a faraway whistle
caught on a thread of unraveling
distance from an old coal train
heading west; it is the
sound of the last of the Canada
geese hefting that famous “V”
of themselves skyward on a
caterwaul and a song;
it is the sound of summer
having sighed to a close and
a mother’s nearby child-call
sliding down the slippery
corridor of a suddenly quickening
night; it is the sound of
the last of the peaches from
the western slope hailing me
from that battered roadside
stand, the sound of the
constellations wheeling
through another cosmic
night ride, the sound of
my life’s evening closing
in and holding fast, the
sound—if I sit still long
enough to listen—of legions
of half-remembered and
sorrowful voices saying goodbye.
***
Janele Johnson is a writer from the Colorado Springs area.
