A Secret Place

Somewhere between the bending birch and the murky creek is a soul I once befriended, nameless in the air of the golden wood but well known to every one of the birds that make their homes here, sheltered well from the cats that creep out only after dark and unaware that there is ever a star or a cloud.  I wonder aloud why it is that the seeds carried on the wind denote a presence long since forgotten, but celebrate that there is such a buzz as the one that drifts into my window even now.  The gentle rhythm and molasses clock put me at ease despite the race that's starting just outside my door, and for now I can lay back and become nothing more than somebody's whisper.