A Strand of Trees at the Edge of a Cliff

There is a delicate symphony playing
Just above our range of hearing: shhh!
Listen. You can’t hear a damn thing.

I’ve moved to the seashore for the waters.
All of my neighbors are quite fluid
At sunset on the highway.

A decade of traffic lining up outside
My house, and I’ve a small errand to run.
My pilot’s wings are at the dry cleaners

Hanging next to Monk’s habit –
He mumbled while playing, when he bothered.
Guess I’ll stay here on the lawn.

My tinnitus is acting up. Is there a doctor
In the house? No, there is only wind
And dust, shadows, and a music box

Which sometimes I swear only plays
When I’m asleep – then again, I removed
The comb to straighten my hair

Which has always stood on end.
I’ve routinely kept a rooster on my sill
To keep the sun on the edge of reason.

Sometimes I peer over the cliff
And although I cannot recognize the seashore
I hear the pistachios cracking.

It is cool in the trees – they’re evergreen.
I listen in on their lofty speech and must hand
It to them: they know when to shut up.