It is indelible. Her skirt billowing in the wind,
    the grass grown brown in the heat of summer.
    Was she miming some kind of laughter? A shriek?

    She ran through the wantonly burnt bushes
    downhill, lads whistling for the wind to vault
    their kites, the wind rustling a murmur of grass.

    He will linger on that hillock to watch a sundown
    form long shadows. She will not be there again.
    But the distant moan of a dove brings her back

    like the hum of that giggling lass, straddling him
    to coax a pledge of unfading, flaming, gripping
    love though the mountains crumble over them.

    They are cool mornings like these that forces
    quiet sounds to roar like the onset of a rainstorm,
    or the echoed lovers’ moans he’d want to run from.

    These quiet sounds pursue him now like hounds
    scurrying for the hunt. Like ghosts of old memories.
    These are the quiet sounds that have turned loud.

    —Albert B. Casuga

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