Concealing,

revealing in equal turns,

the length and breadth

of night extends

its reach,

paints the lonesome

oaks —

bereft of leaves —

in silence…

Feeling our way

to the edges of that

darkened,

incurious landscape —

heeding, perhaps,

the dormant promise

of dreams and rest and

contemplation —

we hold aloft spheres

of shivering,

self-limiting light,

fearful of what we might

discover.

— C.Birde, 11/18