Qui­eter than the end­ing of the night when the gray­ing of the black and
the gray­ing of the light meet and it’s dawn;
qui­eter than the end­ing cir­cuit of the tires on snow
after the engine is cut and the hiss of the brakes is over
and rivulets trail down the wind­shield and I gather myself to go in;
qui­eter than the empti­ness of sound after the echoed shot in the hunt and the hart is down;
qui­eter than the clouds beyond the tip of the plane’s wing,

The place in me where I find you and the noise goes away.