At 9:42 this May morning
the children's rooms are concentrating too.
Like a tendril growing toward the sun, Ruth
moves her book into a wedge of light
that settled on the floor like a butterfly.
She turns a page.
Fred is immersed in magic, cool
as a Black-Angus belly deep in a farm pond.
The only sounds: pages turning softly.
This is the quietness
of bottomland where you can hear only the young corn
growing, where a little breeze stirs the blades
and then breathes in again.
I mark my place.
I listen like a farmer in the rows.
~ Jim Wayne Miller