The beginning stanzas of my poem “Lightning Could Strike,” 2006, chosen in association with summer storms and Fourth of July fireworks.
Dwell in the realm where silence grows on trees, but not like fruit—more like fungus, that which only grows on the dead. It is there that you learn the value of sound. The phone rings. It’s Mom, calling to report the broken trees and outed power. You produce electricity, and all the trees are down. Ants and sap-flows end violently. Darkness falls with the toaster button when the fridge kicks on, and, so, off.
copyright C. L. Tangenberg