At the bus station

Early afternoon at the bus station.

Sun streaming through windows.

A box at my feet.

Something I will hang on a tree branch,

Listen to its melody when the leaves have all fallen,

When the wind blows through the wind catcher

I will hear its notes

Like quiet conversation at first

Then laughter.

What follows next

Are echoes

Of something else.

It is as though the faces

And the silence inbetween

Become the sounds

Floating in the air.

Arrivals and departures.

The box

That soon gets opened.

The steel beams that sway and catch the light.

The beautiful music;

A presence of something both seen

And felt.

The final destination.

A place where the music waits.

by J. Hamilton












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