That time
that I savor, far
before dawn, no
sense of light —
just this:

a long, winding
sheet of silk is
being drawn, slowly,
winding cloth, over
the dead grasses
and stones, trailed
round the branches — it’s
whispering a call to
fulsome sense. And
the drawing never stops;
it is one, long pulling —
uncovering the soul
of sound: alone.

Because you went.

Straight up, the trees
are an entanglement of
black strokes; and I
can see them sway — like
sumi-ye, coming alive.

Because you looked.

And the water is
nurturing the shoreline;
it’s that form of a
vessel, sailing —
no noise of motor, just
the slipping through
light waves, that pass
beneath, gliding.

Because you listened.

A dense, windborne
perfume, washes through
the night — it is of
high, dry pine,
made moist with seasalt
and rounded, watersmooth
stones, kelp curled,
beachwood dried.

Because you scented.

And in the blacknight
I’m walking out, blind.
I take each step,
with sightless sense,
learning of the gnarled
stones, bony branches
that lay there, cracking
like bones, leaves like
garbage, speaking only
of geography.

Because you touched.

I hear a turkey call,
warbling, minding that
I’m here.

And he’s there.

Because you are.

Not alone.