Sometimes, while listening,
their words slip in between sounds and patterns,
just as water slips in between the ridges of a sunken beach chair.
At this point, their sentences become amphibious.
Caught in a metamorphic state between wriggling shapes and pulsing frequencies.
And while they talk,
all I can hear are hastily drawn lines of ink on a long sheet of paper
and the low hum of thoughts passing through.
Their words are slung over the top of the open door
like a fraying blue towel waiting to be used
and used again.
And so I pretend that I am back by the river,
leaning over the splintery railing,
my eyes flicking back and forth between the water and the sky --
Nodding, I catch myself looking up at the tops of trees
with their branches etched in small cross hatchings
against a solid navy backdrop of sky.
Only then, through the dense thicket of voices,
there is silence:
wriggling through the pauses in conversation, changing shape,
weaseling through small spaces, long corridors of sound,
inching around the corner of a room like a spy,
then settling down quietly,
like a thin layer of dust --
with particles dancing patterns in the light.