by Melissa A. Wood

Waiting for our reasons,
Dead voices
make a noise like flapping.
Like paper.
No, it’s like a power supply hum.
Talking to themselves together.
Hushed voices crackle.
Whispering they whir
On and on the
Stories of the days of
Breath. And life leaves them
Wanting more.
Death is not enough for them,
They whisper in the leaves.
They make a noise like purring lions.
Like rustling leaves.

IMAGE: “Nighthawks” (1942) by Edward Hopper, © The Art Institute of Chicago.

Best Birch Shot

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Melissa Wood is the accordionist with the Rosendale Improvement Association Brass Band and Social Club. Currently, she is polishing her book of poems about herbs and flowers. She studies etymology, builds objects sculptural and functional, and is a multi-instrumentalist living in New York’s play land, the Hudson Valley. She also teaches English Language Arts. View her poetry and essays at