Quondam Pond

What counts as quiet
Is whatever’s not
Screaming violence—

Here, a dog barking,
AC compressing,
Jet plane overhead,

None of them in sight—
But no harsh voices.
No people In sight.

And where are you now?
At the pond of past
Hours you never met,

Taking us on trust
To describe these things,
A bat, lavender

Skies growing darker,
A moon neither half,
Full, crescent, gibbous,

But in that brief phase
When the cut’s straight-edged
To the left of half.

Too much? The air’s warm
For this time of year,
So now crickets.