Some voices sound out of lungs
like a fine oak barrell,
or at the edges of notes
run their hands through dry grain,
or play hard on the sinews of the face and throat
as though with a heart-broken bow.

Some sounds all feel the same.
When I closed my eyes outside that cabin,
our first winter in Canada,
the wind in the frozen trees tore at me
and I could almost believe
that i was back in the roaring quiet
of the waves in California.
And now, after long years here
of 4 seasons with no beach
I can still hear a well-remembered shaking roar
in the rush and swell of waves of cars
down on the street.