The other side of danger
usually keeps quiet.

It’s the sound of the green light
after a driver plows through

a red, the whisper of grass
in an empty field no more

a crash site, smoke having crept
into the thinnest of air

and fallen across the earth
again. It’s the pause between

heart beats of an injured wren
that limps about a backyard

after the cat or a hawk
has left it. It’s the space in

the lungs where there should be a
sigh of relief, every test

negative, a murmur of
electrical charge flashing

in good cells, one lightning rod
drawn in the gathering clouds.