The moon drops one or two feathers into the field.
The dark wheat listens.
Be still.
Now.
There they are, the moon’s young, trying
Their wings.
Between trees, a slender woman lifts up the lovely shadow
Of her face, and now she steps into the air, now she is gone
Wholly, into the air.
I stand alone by the elder tree, I do not dare breathe
Or move.
I listen.
The wheat leans back toward is own darkness,
And I lean toward mine.
~ James Wright
from Collected Poems
photo by Gerhard Richter
with thanks to crashingly beautiful
