The blonds of marks, 
made by tools
in oak, pine, fruitwood, 
and even ancient larch.
 
The sound, the first sound,
is after we put the chainsaw down
and strain to hear again,

to catch the wood smell
as the chisel finishes the cicatrix
along the board—
fire’s toothless cravings
yawning in the distance.       							 

Deafness recedes, breath sharpens, 
we return to ordinary air. 

Our senses, our species thus far evolved, 
will not catch, as we glimpse 
fall the last oak leaf, 
that it lands with infinitely high 
scritch against a bluestone slab.
                        

		~punctum saliens 

the dropped				
rock makes circles			
as it hits the water,		            
a small splash.    			

		a small clutch
		of vireos stirs,
		as a rock
		hits the water,

the meaning
is the physics                                      
of it all,			            
perfection				
anticipated by			            
weight, the inches			
in air above, before			
it hits.                    		            

		so not particularly,
		not particularly
		large, the morning’s
		silence punctuated
		by the event.

it happens.
we accommodate,
or fall into the xyz
of memory and slim
wonder at the math.
            
		the salient event
		just now touches
		the shore
		a broken stillness,
		the green shore lapped
		in significance.