In this week’s poem, Franklin Freeman invites us into a nighttime moment of stillness and discovery. I love how this poem moves from its story to larger reflections on sound, and how it limns listening as an intimate and even spiritual act.

Freeman’s poetry has been most recently published in Grey Sparrow Journal, San Pedro River Review, Sequoia Speaks and other journals. His book reviews, essays and stories have appeared in many venues. He grew up in Texas, Connecticut and California, moved to Boston for grad school and then married a Maine woman who wanted Maine back. He lives in Saco and has a house, kids, dog, chickens, bees and a small family business.

such things
By Franklin Freeman

last night I walked out
to close the pop door
in the chicken coop
but then, hearing something,
stopped.

at first I thought
there’s something in the gully
in the trees, a squirrel or deer
or raccoon out there.

I turned on my flash-
light and shone it down
then up because
the sound came from there.
all I saw were falling
maple leaves.

leaves falling
and tapping down on
their brethren as they came
to rest. sometimes

usually at night
you can hear such things
snow sifting silver down
on snow
and maple leaf
tapping maple leaf.

in the book of Ezekiel
God (whoever “God” is)
was not heard in the storm but
in the tiny
whispering
sound.

you can hear
such things.

Megan Grumbling is a poet and writer who lives in Portland. Deep Water: Maine Poems is produced in collaboration with the Maine Writers & Publishers Alliance. “such things” copyright 2024 by Franklin Freeman, appears by permission of the author.