A Small Breeze in October

Nothingness moves

across the surface of the earth

like a pack of hounds

at hunt,

sprinting snout first

without a sound, and trammeling

tall, sweet feather grass

to mud.

It comes as scent recedes

from the green of lost wetlands,

eager to fill quiet space

like night fills the rooms

of an abandoned house,

scrambling in

through open windows

from outer wilds,

drooling silence

from its many

open, empty, smiling

mouths.

W. Oliver Hunt