Writings by Tim Girvin
At: Last Night

At:
fall of night, as all silences
emerge, windless, there is
still stirring.

Moon beckons, a trail to her
as the water shimmers
not only with her

fragile splinterings,
but a fishing
constellation

sparkles, another
rippling, flickering
her reaching strokes

like fingers, playing
notes beneath the
surface, upwards

starward, I see
the tiniest bird,
flitting -- at work

at night, hummingbird:
in attention, she's
exploring,then whirring


and winds out the most
fragrant whine --
a whinnying call

to another who
isn't there --
at least

that I know...
still, I'm sure,
in her pacing

she will find
it, as have I, ?
in searching

all ways.

Tim Girvin
(Originally sent: April 23, 2005)

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