BY KAT LEWIS
When her boot slips from rock into mud, the silence is broken. The distant careening of creek over stone, bellow of a bird somewhere close to the constant buzz of tiny insects near the ear, but not. The rhythm of calypso orchids knocking their heads together in time with the synth of sunlight slicing through the space between everything. The motion of doors neither opened or closed. Silken drip of water from fern to moss in flux with the vibrating heartbeat thrumming inside her head with whisper of limb leafing limb leafing limb on canopy wind above.
Pressing an abandoned snail shell to shell
of her ear, she muffles the kaleidoscope of sound. To
the banana slugs, her own pitch she hums.
Kat Lewis, a Northwestern Pennsylvania native, is a MFA candidate in Poetry at the University of Idaho where she is the Managing Editor for Fugue literary journal. She travels relentlessly, writes passionately, and photographs constantly. More of her poetry can be found in Flyway: Journal of Writing and Environment and The Merrimack Review.