In the pale, early morning the floorboards are cold
Out the window the grass is quiet and the old, low shacks
Rest beneath the drooping walnut trees
As they have for a hundred years
She turns in the bed and the sheets rustle
But there is no outside noise
Like looking onto a silent movie
Till at last the shudder of some far away truck
Shifting low to climb some hill.
If we are quiet enough for long enough
Can we hear the sound of time passing?
Is it a faint ticking of a clock
Or the barely audible rush of some jet
A thousand miles away?