Still Life At Dusk

It happens surprisingly fast,

the way your shadow leaves you.

All day you’ve been linked by

the light, but now that darkness

gathers the world in a great black tide,

your shadow leaves you to join

the sea of all other shadows.

If you stand here long enough,

you, too, will forget your lines

and merge with the tall grass and

old trees, with the crows and the

flooding river—all these pieces

of the world that daylight has broken

into objects of singular loneliness.

It happens surprisingly fast, the loss

of your shadow, and standing

in the field, you become the field,

and standing in the night, you

are gathered by night. Invisible

birds sing to the memory of light

but then even those separate songs fade

into the one big silence that always

seems to be waiting.