The Fieldstone Review

Learning to see in the dark


Things find their shapes in the dark.
This evening I am learning to see with my mind.
The trees scrabble messages stark

across the sky. The moon is a bright rim of arc
buried in clouds, and the stars that semaphore in the night
are complicated. But things do find their shapes in the dark.

I can make out my bicycle bulwarked
in snow, the garbage bin slid out under the street light.
The branches scramble messages stark

across blank windowpane. Most of the birds have gone
but I see a company of cranes, their necks trombones
in a comedy of cacophony across the sky
to hearten their long flight. Things find their silhouettes in the dark.

A raven from northern parts in ten muscular wing beats starts
over the field overtaking the cranes with devil-may-dare. A sigh
in the wind and twig-digits tick nothings in the cold. Watch

that moon, a giant pearl hanging in the dark, emerge
from a cataract of clouds, so silver the feeling there are no words
for what’s seen through this thin membrane of sight.
Things find their shapes in the light eked out of the dark.
Against the sky the trees scrabble messages, or nothing, so stark
voices to be erased by wind.