BeginningThe moon drops one or two feathers into the fiels.The dark wheat listens.Be still.Now.There they are, the moon's young, tryingTheir wings.Between trees, a slender woman lifts up the lovely shadowOf her face, and now she steps into the air, now she is goneWholly, into the air.I stand alone by an elder tree, I do not dare breatheOr move.I listen.The wheat leans back toward its own darkness,And I lean toward mine. James Arlington Wright
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