In the empty lot
across the street
they graze on ground
scrape and grind —
diesel sculptors
of land and sound
that rumble words
shatter lines I try to write
take up residence
between my shoulder blades and teeth.

Then it’s quitting time
and quiet unfurls through air.
Into this gap
this negativity of sound —
an echo, insistent:
how the backhoe’s motor
idled, revved, and whined
how metal screamed
when it hit rock
how workers’ voices floated
like dandelion seeds
windblown

this stillness opens

silence

then

words

asking to be heard.

Cindy Buchanan grew up in Alaska, has a BA in English from Gonzaga University, and studies poetry at Hugo House in Seattle, Wash. She is a member of two monthly poetry groups, is an avid runner and hiker, and enjoys every opportunity to be outdoors. Her work has been published in Chestnut Review, Evening Street Review, Hole in the Head Review, The Inflectionist Review, and other journals. Her poetry has been nominated for Best of the Net. Her chapbook, Learning to Breathe (Finishing Line Press), was published in 2023. Find her at cindybuchanan.com.