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