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
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

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:

More mysteries
reveal them
selves, here.

But that is
foolish — it’s
my clumsy self

to think that
there is less

anywhere else,
when, observant,
it shows itself

and anywhere,
to the watchful.


someone said
to me, who
was dying.

Embracing that,
I can see, morning
light coming.

d e c a t u r