Roy Herndon Smith
A black car swerves then
speeds straight down the long grey street
on the other side
of this small valley
in this city not known for
hills and valleys that
suggest bucolic
quiet, not this loud, bumptious,
unsleeping tumble
of bridges, buildings,
and people driving fast through
the times of their lives;
but perched on this edge
of this cliff of a room high
on this side of what
is factually
a valley, I, waking with
the trees and the sky,
the water waving,
the earth breathing, and the sun
slowly exploding,
rest in the ever
unfolding sentience of
the pastoral past
that bore a village
into a town, a city—
below in the depths,
but close, a cat yowls,
and fathomless wild silence
stills the city’s cries.
dust 