Submitted by Ronald E. Shields
The television in the background is a game of blind man’s bluff.
The small wind beneath the tree – the fluttering of a pheasant’s wings.
The light through the window is the moon hunting.
The night sounds, your voice returning naked
or crickets folded into the wall.
The fields retreat to their dark creases in the folds of hills.
Now is the time of the good darkness
when our hands imagine the ripeness that awaits a feathery sun.
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Photo Credit: A Snowy Night – 1939 George Sotter