Cicadas fall silent, one by one.
Tree frogs drop into slumber, the fog
halts, pauses, begins to consider turning back
over the mountain, the sun seeming to approach
as we turn into its blessing. Under quilts
the dream world disappears behind a closing door
leaving something, some small vision,
a blue scarf, an old woman’s leather shoe,
something without its story, something
to ponder as the light arrives, lose into the light
when you stir and rise: a sheet corner
knotted around a bed post; a microphone,
the air still moving where the speaker vanished;
muffled plonk of distant tennis balls; an adult
in a beaked leather mask, stroking a sick child;
prosciutto on a paper plate with two
unknowable things; a person in red hip waders
standing in the icy water below Mendenhall Glacier
waving.
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