In an empty mountain,
hints of a drifting voice,
like an ancient Chinese poet, a wet coat of moss for poultice, last
flares of sunlight speckling the stream, molecules bounce off the
base of the falls, female laughter passes behind, caressing his
I am always listening,
to water, trees, birds,
goggle in my ears.
Colder today than it's been all winter,
my range is constantly narrowed, frozen,
voiceless, a prisoner without sentence, the mind in the dark has
no object to reflect on and no object to limit the endless racing
of its reflections. In the end, the fear of the darkness is the
fear that the darkness will not end cerulean winds swirling, so far, there are still depths to
be gauged listening with eyes wide open.