No Moon At All

The ground has vanished. I feel it as my feet fall, but each landing is a surprise. My eyes tell me nothing is there. All I see rises; silhouettes of looming trees and chimneys, a few roof peaks here and there. Until some window shall be lit, all else save the scattering of stars is invisible, placed only by memory. Though immediate, these houses might as well be other houses, line some other street, exist in some other year, dependent as they are on my thought to make them real. Dark has destroyed both time and place, leaving me to envision the world as I will. I pass hours exploring vanished scenes and distant streets, arranging as I go their form and substance. Walls and doors take shape, pavements of stone or brick long worn away resonate to my footsteps, shadows congregate, cast only by my thoughts. In deepest night, things are as it pleases me they be. Only inchoate dawn scatters the illusion, its light like a rising breeze that slowly dissipates a pleasant fog.

While Listening to the Last Crows

The Marathon sun runs race after race, and day after day the records fall. Earth sweats with the sun's exertion. This afternoon, a competitor appeared. Soft clouds which had lurked all day suddenly sprinted into the west, softening the light, and the day breathed a sigh of relief, a cool breeze which stirred the new blossoms and wafted their fragrance through the shade. As the sun dropped from sight, the clouds glowed a cheery pink, then darkened to smoky banners striating the last light. A young hawk glided toward them, dusk flowing from his wings, his passage the embodiment of silence.