a moon, worn as if it had been a shell

Beginning

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 an elder tree, I do not dare breathe 

Or move. 

I listen. 

The wheat leans back toward its own darkness, 

And I lean toward mine.

James Wright

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.