Maybe a Dance

Perhaps as I walk among so many gentle plants and animals that populate this meandering country road, the sun is sinking low as the slow circling scents of twilight settle above me, below me, on all sides. The lights from home glow warmly in the distance. They define the destination. In the end, I arrive.

Maybe a dance in contrast, goes nowhere. While it may begin as the perpetual play of dewdrops along a slippery branch of plum before shifting to a confusion of flying birds, it ends on a remembering of so much passing away, of wings folding up. It is as if all the books on the wall were feathers in a giant feather bed as I move my hand across the page and the images rearrange themselves.