Notes from Milwaukee

"Hear that?" At the bottom of Sheepwash Hill, Mom lifts her cell phone. "The peepers. Can't you hear them?" For seven generations we shared these songs in timber land near Crooked Creek. I press hot plastic between palm and ear. Through speaker's rasp, I strain to discern the singing snore, ascending criiick , throbbing purr a'thruming . . . so distant, and maybe only static. Little wonder our newborns crave maternal heartbeats against their apricot ears-- being selved so suddenly outside of most beloved sound. For the reader-- What sounds have shaped your experiences? Do you still hear those sounds in your everyday life, or have you--or they--moved? How does proximity to beloved places and/or people affect you? How have you navigated times of changing connections? I'd love to hear your thoughts if you want to share them in the comments. If you have work of your own that connects to these ideas, feel free to post a link. Poem...

I sweep pale honey boards that sag in places, that don't lie flush--and feel reverberations of peculiar, buoyant interest. I have made this before: a living room under a shaggy juniper roof, a tiny hog house turned hide-out, a room in a barn full of dreams.

Gray skirts of afternoon trail wind chimes, curled leaves, and the rhythmic wooden thump of cars above the pedestrian walkway. Beneath the bridge--strange world of sand, tire swings, and signage placing the risk entirely on those at play. Coffee shop festooned with colored lights-- men at the bar discuss anime and Lord of the Rings. A man with tattoos on his forehead and soft black eyes offers to buy me a drink. Lured by a glimpse of lake, I get lost and unlost and come again to a place almost too new to be home.