Creek Running North

It is time, and the killdeer’s cry comes whistling ominous and sad out of the night, attenuated, echoing and away and gone.

Hair on my neck stands up. An owl. Noiseless white wings as soft as thought in stealth approach a grating rasp breathless urgent, and then in stealth departs.

Waves break unseen, wash up in between algae-slicked cobbles, drain back to the bay in silence.

One could spend a lifetime in this single night, night a deep wild territory of the ephemeral. So much of it, all hidden. It is a tapetum knowledge, and beyond us. Instead, I draw the night down around my shoulders.

I draw the night down around my shoulders and my vision clears, but not enough. My chest burns from the inside outward. My eyes are open, but not enough. I long for an illuminated path. My heart is wide, but not enough.

Jet eyes, onyx feathers watch me. Someone else is up too late as well, draped in night and pacing this unlit way amid the glass shards. I glance and am alone again, five strong wingbeats against the dark and silent again.