Poem with a line from Ilya Kaminsky

What is silence? Something of the sky in us.
A rift that opens, so two not speaking

can step through to find a street 
still blunted by rain, part 

of a fence leaning against another 
part that isn't broken. There's no need

to point out what needs to be done.
Once, on a mountain road wide enough
 
for only one vehicle, two
met in the middle, unable

to proceed. I don't know how each
made its way to its destination:

if passengers got down from the bus,
shouldered their belongings and made

the trek to town on foot. It's not
so easy to return to the beginning

when something keeps nudging you 
forward. A stone thrown over the edge 

falls for a long time, and you strain 
your ears to hear the sound it makes.