Something Moving Slowly Comes

The wind whispers.

The tall, ripe grass bends

to hear each syllable.

The stream's winding waters

that all day long giggle

like girls gathered to hear

one of them tell of the previous night

and how he stumbled in confusion,

are hushed,

intent like girls gathered

each imagining herself the one

who tells in detail how she shed her girlhood

one snap, one button at a time

for him who with gentle confidence

led her, without haste, into the mystery.

The meadow waits.

The trees stand in silhouette,

their black on black.

Something moving slowly comes.

The doe, wrapped warmly

in the night's dark covers,

raises her head and reads the air.

The fox stops, listens,

abandons the chase,

and follows the whisper

through the grass.

"Better to be hungry and be home,"

she thinks.

One can almost hear

the universe's great wheels grinding,

this moment before dawn.

Learn more about this author, Jim Curtis.
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