Curated by Ed Hack

Curated

The train at 7:45 am.
Brief basso, then a long barrage, its horn
so strong it tears the air to shreds and then
it’s gone, and what was torn is now reborn,
is whole, and day resumes in ease and light
as quiet as two folded hands. Soft sun,
a mellow kind of smudged-lit glow, unbright
but bright enough for this day just begun.
The day, the fox that made its kill, the June
trees in their quietness, the bare-bright from
the distant sun curated like a tune
that Mozart, just arisen, might have hummed,
a simple song spun from the air and dark,
a dance, perhaps, or song, alive with sparks.

by Ed Hack

Editor’s Note: This sonnet’s imagery encompasses the relief that descends after a sensory storm—silence so delightful it feels like music.