"Write it," the note in my journal said,
only that fragment. What about the quiet?
A mile high in Canadian Rocky woods, still
the jets crossed overhead, the trees creaked,
wind whistled up and down the scale,
pipes clanked or froze, coyotes called,
the typewriter clunked, my PowerBook hummed,
stomach growled, heart thumped -
I must have meant the quiet in my head.