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

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