I don't know what I was thinking while the shadows clambered up the branches. I don't know where the moon was before I saw it in the trees. I hear the bowing of a violin, I hear a helicopter over head. For a moment there is a wash of echoes as these voices take the field. A sky once bright now again goes dark. The words all wondering whether they even want to stay.
Children play among these vacancies, the empty field, the faithless dusk. Geese above belabor their point, their voices plaintive and prolonged. Another song takes the air, a rock n roll poet of the classic type, the reach between our devastated lives and our childhood radios. It plays on like a prayer, all feeling and futility. The lift and the drag, the drift and the draw. The moon mingles with this numb enchantment, every phrase a poem, every breath sheer urgency.
Say it again before we lose the moment. Say it once more only because I ask you to. These mingling tides of want and wander, the movements of the flocks and the folk. I linger in this ancient history that always seems to be busy happening. I cling to the faith of plodding earth and restless skies, the way I cannot wander when I look into your eyes. I cling to your every border, mingling with every inference and egress. The world and two weeks away, a sense of impending home.
