I’m looking out
to nothing, in the far hours
before dawn.
And I hear the
huffing of three
otters, swimming.
I can see, by
moonlight, their
triangles of passage
in the water
rippling,
in triad.
Off there, hearing
another: hooting
in strokes of three.
Hoo hoo hoo
are the calls, in
each rhythm — this
is far, and hard
to place, in
space: meanwhile,
the stars are
dimmed by the
moon, whose light
reflects my heart
beat, in the soft
and slow time
of the water —
this light
coming to the house
walls and
pulsing as
quiet blood, in light.
Outside, walking,
the shadows are
strokes of whitening —
like white-daubed
fingers, tracing
lines in the forest
and grass. This
is the opposite
of light, in day.
Then, it’s obvious:
sun here, light
there.
Now, in darkness,
moonlight shines
in shadow, the
liquid rules
of the water
reaching up to me
and counting
the pace of my
heart on the
walls, in the
timing of the
morning blue black.
Grateful, yet
again, to be:
here.
More mysteries
reveal them
selves, here.
But that is
foolish — it’s
my clumsy self
to think that
there is less
beauty,
anywhere else,
when, observant,
it shows itself
everywhere
and anywhere,
to the watchful.
“Love
your
days”,
someone said
to me, who
was dying.
Embracing that,
I can see, morning
light coming.
tsg
d e c a t u r