Small repeating patterns
spotted revealing private messages.
The croak of bull frogs behind me
calling out, slowly. The sound is a visual thing.
Female letting out a tease
as suiters hurriedly raise their voice in desperate sequence
waiting for her to echo back the number of times they did
Three, six, nine
repeating. reminders of our continuing survival
Nine doubled, always equaling back to it’s self
One set of rolling tires on dew damp pavement.
Eight blinks of a wayward star.
Two flutters of my eye lashes as the bull croaks out seven times.
Three slaps of a branch.
Six steps to my bed.
Five bodies snoring in a space meant for four.
Can you close your eyes and hear the sequence in your space?
The numbers disguised in the rustle of the wind.
Hushed laughter of parents making an inside joke
or the staccato rhythm of my toddler wheezing,
my ear catching all of her whispers.
Be carful what you listen for…
its hard to give back secrets you’ve unlocked