Sitting on the porch, lingering over words after dinner with friends, a gentle rain began to fall. It whispered the fragrance of honeysuckle and mowed grass. Conversation was punctuated by the occasional firefly and the punch lines of forgotten jokes. We spun our tales between garden and house, studio and table, earth and silence.
Sitting over words
very late I have heard a kind of whispered sighing
like a night wind in pines or like the sea in the dark
the echo of everything that has ever
still spinning its one syllable
between the earth and silence
-- W. S. Merwin, "Utterance"