In the barest of touch,
almost a caress,
a metal brush is held
against a large brass cymbal
and allowed to linger
for a long second
before being pulled away
down and across
the shining disc.

This is the sound
the long grasses make
as they touch one another
in the meadow today.
A swishing. 

If I could send you this sound,
laid over the silence of the valley,
I would.