In a dream I saw umber birds inking
like knife slices out of a rolling lowland.
I hurried to them, approaching on the back
of a seed that had raised me from the valley floor
on a cool wind, an idea, a country emerging
with sails from its cities, engine gears creaking.
But when I reached the place, they had winged
away leaving shadows on a russet ground
that said, “Soon we will return. Or write us.
And remember–at least as long as signals last.”
And last. At least as long as a shadow can stay
in one place. They’re like tiger prints in the blue
snow. See how deep the holes go. And go. Alas,
they never did return. Rather, the wind let me down
on a shore where the grass was silver gray
and spread off above the water to the ankles
of mountains like an impossible number of heron legs.
I waded, made way through the fields. The air
turned thin above the verticals where light
touches the world first, and woke up cold,
sore, high above the writing on a stone under
a green tree striking a pose against storms coming.
