gliding smooth on
from ridge to creek,
then eyes, by instinct, rise to a
raven against the sun.
It was not the bird but it’s
shadow that caused this stillness.
Do shadows leave behind an etching in
unbroken snow, a trail in dust?
Is there a lasting effect of
shadow-bearing beyond the
passing obstruction of light? It seems if we are
standing where we should, at some still point of being,
against the sun, then mystery alone
is the great thrower of our
shadier individualities. There are days
I feel myself the shadow of