Naked trees, only
draped with sound
absorbers.
A weeks’ worth
of snow bands
from the Great Lake.
In the predawn glow,
gray snow rests
on the mingled branches
reaching to the twigs.
The sun’s light contours
what’s already sculpted into
A tangle of white muscle on
the boney limbs.
All quiet out there.
Should I step out,
even the crunch beneath
my feet will float away
and hide in the insulation.
White noise is sometimes seen,
not heard.
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“White noise is sometimes seen, not heard”
Reminding me to pause to experience the world using a different sense.
That’s a great take away!
Love this, as always Jerry. I came expecting one thing and left thinking about words in a whole different way. One of my favorite sights is the naked trees with a sunset or sunrise behind them — I always think “lace.” But of course, you might come up with “muscle!”
Wonderful!
Gerald the Writer 
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