I lie on my back
where land draws up,
forced into bank
by a river that has its way;
water troubles and turns,
a slow diminuendo like
the fading of old scars.

Movement in the shelf of sky
is only a loss of light,
a bone moon reveals its face
along a scarf of cloud.
Heat bears the night electric,
chalks tree against slate
in skeletal bas-relief.

I watch the set of day
cast valley into flame,
the silence of sheathed wings
leaves a stir of italic rain.