The Sentry

In a scaffolding
Overlooking a field
In the heart of winter
Everything is asleep

The field is dead and brown
The trees are skeletons
Standing against the grey skies and exposed
The plants and trees are asleep

Cars and trucks rush by
Filled with anticipation
Of reaching their destination
But they are all asleep

The sentry looks around
And asks, “Who, who will listen?”
Who will listen to the wind,
Who will hear the creek’s story?

Not one stops, no one hears
They rush by on their way
Where are they going?
There is no threat here, yet I fear

They don’t understand
They don’t listen
They don’t love
They’re all dead.