Non-Whistlers

Leia Marroquin

Your head perks toward the wide, honey-blue sky,
then right at me.
I laugh, knowing you notice
the same endless space
we both try and make sense of.

I’m sure you see dinosaurs drifting,
their irregular shapes
making out fire blasts.
If only this world were more like you—
enjoying without sound,
giving the silent their place
to shine and be admired.

You whistle without sound,
watching the courageous tiny bird
step, then flap across the branch,
planning its first flight with song.
I mimic you,
because I can’t whistle either.
Me and you — non-whistlers.

We sit on the cool, lush dew,
the grass pressing like a dog’s tongue
against our palms — damp, warm, alive.
You pull your hand back;
something tiny and amber-brown
crawls across your skin.
Your eyes widen, searching for safety
before fear arrives.

You cry — no sound,
just the tremble of your lip.
“It’s okay,” I whisper.
“He also roams and wonders.
He doesn’t speak either,
but he wanted to greet you today.”

You study him closely —
the slow curl of his body,
the patient way he claims the earth.
Then your shoulders soften.
You let him pass.  

He shows himself to you
because he trusts your stillness,
the way you trust mine.

You laugh — this time with sound,
a bright, rippling laugh
that rises through the trees
and hums its way into my chest.

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Leia Marroquin
Leia Marroquin is a poet and nurse from Texas whose work listens for what’s left unsaid. Through themes of silence, care, and small moments of recognition, she writes toward gentleness and understanding.