After the Beacons

At dusk the satellites comb the river with quiet teeth, leaving behind a shiver of light on the reeds. The water takes it in, a brief password, and forgets the rest to the pull of stones.

In the old meadow, the moss keeps its low grammar, green ink pressed into the bark, a patient script. I kneel and hear the soil ticking softly, as if a pocket watch were buried for the roots.

A fox crosses like a comma in the mist, pausing where the air tastes faintly of metal. Somewhere a tower hums and calls the geese, but the field answers in a language of sap and dew.

Night comes braided with small errors of flame. I gather them in my hands and let them go, watching each rise, a tiny migration, until the dark is a roof and the meadow goes on.