Against an empty sky,
the elm is feathered with gold
like some apparent wing.
On the dark avenue, people pass,
lifting their collars.
Through the lit windows,
empty stairwells and still pianos.
Sparrows drive their hearts into grass.
The moon pulls aside its curtain
as if someone is peering there.
Solitude could not find a better partner.
In the winter to come,
the earth will turn its cheek,
and bear up against the cold of its own betrayals.
It is just a typical evening.
My feet burn two shadows in my path.
- Judith Harris
Photo: The Dress Lamp Treet - Tim Walker
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