Sanctuary is quiet, as in the birdbath’s unrippled 
stillness. As in the rabbit under the heath, not so much 

 

as a whisker twitch while fear pulsates 
to a more palatable pace. As in the oak leaf 

 

waiting for the wind to whirl it to grass, the need 
for hurry absent in the air. It takes as long as it takes. 

 

As in the rain arrives right on time, unrushed 
by our dust or thirst or need. As in our chapped rage 

 

will be balmed when the storm eventually splinters 
the sky. Our rolling fury thunder is deafening, quiet 

 

but not a home.

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By Sarah Hanson