It is raining. The leaves fall
so consistently it sounds like rain.
I am a fool.
I sit alone in a cabin. The trees are clamoring
to be let in, rushing thickly against
the windows. They smell smoke
from the wood stove, but are not afraid.
I’m a little afraid.
I’m sitting alone in the cabin.
Never have I ever been squeezed by such a silence.
A silence several feet taller than me,
hugging me about the head.
I hear my name and get excited. I want
to have a conversation, talk to the trees
about the book by Herman Hesse I’m reading
and ask them for advice, like: “How can I
ready myself for the coming winter?”
but I only imagined I’d heard my name.
The trees are silent. They cross their branches.
Like everyone, they aren’t happy with me.
# # #
Katie Quarles received her B.A. in Creative Writing from the University of California, Santa Cruz. Her work has appeared in numerous journals including The King’s English, Apocryphal Text, Interrupture, Poetry Now, and The Avalon Literary Review. She lives and writes in Rocklin, California.