High upon our hill, I awaken to a million 

voices shushing by, intoning: Be still, listen

on this most dangerous of nights. Hear us.

Rocking rumble overlaps the fitful edge

of this small island. Beseeching echo's

counterpoint buffets conglomerate fists.

Above us, starlight soughs in ancient limbs.

Air – crystalline – rains needles, as drought

– severe and vengeful – creaks along the canopy.

What is it? What are they saying?

Mind refuses to match sound to words.

How many will be left standing?

Parched against the sky, fingers

streaking rust, rasp our longest sigh.

Let the voices be a river then,

a flow to drown all doubt, running

below us, a whispering of wings.