Here in the vast clearing,
no wind writing the world,
the unheard silver music
breaks evening’s quieter surface,
finishing the light, the hour,
while those near glisterings—
sprite-winged dragonflies,
etheric green flames—
dance in the heart’s ear.

That song, that song I
can’t sing but have here
tonight on the plains—
ten thousand fires and
memory in the smoke—
how I love the strum
and tone of it falling from
the bowl, the womb
above the graves.