Hof

Sometimes the sky above the silent field would resound with the noises that should've been heard within the trees, in the grass, among the flowers and weeds, in the barn where animals were tied and children slept, fingers trembling beyond reach. The stars buttressed by their quaking shells. You noticed the goat trying to chew off the bell dangling from its chaffed neck. Where the voices once were, the dark blue horizon now folds in on itself. I would clean bowls and glasses, set them on the wooden bench in the yard, let the wind dry them. Clouds betrayed the rains beyond. All the noises held in the sky would soon be unleashed, pouring over the quietness we kept.