a tractor turns and its mechanical racket,
up itself, makes no sense
while my three sons, asleep in a nearby tent,
learning, feeling, singing, whispering, dancing.
Most clatter is hollow; spiraling labyrinthine ears
and once I sat in an empty cave and heard – Nothing.
Instinctively, I made up noises to cheer
my brain – sounds of people –
like these boys breathing and dreaming in a tent’s stocking;
yearning for the centre of a small warm circle.