I am broken bits and fragments
of others’ lives I’ll never know
beyond this myopic horizon
smudging the sun into night:
an owl slips through tree branches
to watch the rustle of grass below.
I hear the soft noises scurry
surreptitiously in my darkness.
The vole’s secret, larger than itself,
fits tightly folded into a pocket.
I dare not read what I do not
wish to know, yet it is waiting.
In my darkness, I must move slow;
in my darkness, there’s nowhere to go.
(May 5, 2025)
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