the house creaks in the sudden sunlight
the plants can almost breathe in the windows
the furnace rests
the gusts object
the insects crawl back to their haunts in the vents
the sweaters migrate to the bottom of the drawer
the shawls decorate the backs of the rockers

and yet

even now as the solstice approaches
August and September beckon

and time speeds up
in anticipation
of the passage of the present
to the past

it's quiet

the flag ripples in the wind
and tosses the flagpole in its saddle
and flaps against the pergola beams
the little lost silver fish charm
listens with me while it waits

and I can hear all that, and the cable box hard drive
humming, the fans running in the basement, their steady rustling rising through the vents

that's how quiet