The moon drops one or two feathers into the field.
The dark wheat listens.
There they are, the moon's young, trying
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 an elder tree, I do not dare breathe
The wheat leans back toward its own darkness,
And I lean toward mine.
I'm up at Mammoth Mountain, checking out the fall colors and recovering from the past few weeks. I don't know -- I'm feeling drained in a way I haven't in the past which I guess is to be expected. Up here in the mountains, the air is clear and biting cold. It rained in sheets yesterday, all day, yet I lifted my face to the water in gratitude. Rainbows arched over cloudy skies, and the cottonwoods' leaves are yellow coins, hanging on.