The swish of the
fabric of long skirts
and high-collared
white blouses
the only sounds of
a summer’s day
She feels the
slight moisture
beading on her
forehead
as she directs
the maid in her dusting
She walks to the
door, fanning herself
and looks out to
the street
with its uninterrupted
noonday quiet
She hears the faint clang:
the blacksmith
hammering the anvil
a few blocks
away in town
She waits, not
sure if the waiting
will have its
reward, but waiting
nonetheless for
a whistled tune,
a throat
cleared, the occasional song
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