Moth in the House

Skimming the wood floor like a bi-plane over the November fields,
might wonder where the breeze went, and all the chorus and lilt of the leaves
and attending call of here-and-there birds, the musk of the tomato plants
which have carpeted one yard, the still sea of concrete in another,
I wonder how the radio makes sense, or the rock-still yellow couch, or the
window which seems to offer all the sounds but only asks a riddle.