No one seen.
In an empty mountain,
hints of a drifting voice,
nothing more.

Singing 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 spine.

I am always listening,
to water, trees, birds,
fish giggle 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.