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.