we assume silence to be nothing 
though the deep basins ring 
with their hidden acapella  

and across the savannah  
giraffes and elephants nod 
to what we’ll never know. 

when the cat next door was dying 
mine would walk over 
and sit beside all day.  

the hollow of an empty church. 
a hay barn late at night. 
a quietude 

George Perreault's recent work is in The Florida Review, West Trade Review, Angel Rust, and elsewhere.