Silas Thorne's Journal

Spaced out by waiting in wide open spaces
I hear the cicadas, out by the trees.
Where the swallows skim lightly, close over land's carpet,
there is a connection.
There, by the base of your shadow.
There, where your foot sole's tied on tight.
Creeping up your spine,
flashing in your grey eyes bright,
there is a connection.