beginning

The moon drops one or two feathers into the field.

The dark wheat listens.

Be still.

Now.

There they are, the moon’s young, trying

Their wings.

Between trees, a slender woman lifts up the lovely shadow

Of her face, and now she steps into the air, now she is gone

Wholly, into the air.

I stand alone by the elder tree, I do not dare breathe

Or move.

I listen.

The wheat leans back toward is own darkness,

And I lean toward mine.

~ James Wright

 from Collected Poems

photo by Gerhard Richter