John Miller Poems

What is quiet? It is the absence of mind and sound. It is the color white, vague like the words of a rambling man. It is the absence of children’s
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I stand upon the bank of the muddy river in awe of what I see.
The river’s roaring waters stumble over each other, rolling beneath its awesome force.
The river widens as the earth crumbles into it.
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I sit on my porch, eyes closed and ears open. The sounds of a summer’s night begin to fill my thoughts; a hot breeze blows across my face. The mocking birds begin their nightly chorus, followed by the chirping of crickets. A sparrow joins the melody, his sound most frequent.
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