It sounded less like mountains shattering
than the raw throat rasp of birds
learning to breathe.
The circumference of zero is always less than thunder
shaking a house down, than this wind that rattles
my bones. I dig with my hands in the dirt
to uncover a correspondence between light
and sound. Remember, there is a depth to velocity,
an unreality of form. Together, we map infinite
variations of space. You are a totem in my village,
the pigeon clipping its wings.
BIO Kalil Zender is currently working on her MFA in creative nonfiction at Northern Michigan University where she also teaches freshman composition and serves as an associate editor at Passages North literary magazine. Kalil has recently returned to the cold Midwest after several years spent teaching ESL and fighting Muay Thai in northern Thailand.