The first thing I heard on going outside this morning was the deep, soft hooting of an owl. Dawn was as yet a rose hint that tinted the scattering of clouds. The owl was among the dark pines, saying night's farewell. Moments later a cacophony of woodpeckers shattered stillness as light revealed the trees. The chilly air vibrated to life and forgot the feathered woodwind, lost the nocturne's notes. Overflowing, day drowned peace in motor noise and rushing wheels, door slams and dog barks, raucous crows and a rising breeze. Light everywhere, I returned to the dim house and slept, remembering the owl.
by A. S. J. Tessimond
Light's patterns freeze: Frost on our faces. Light's pollen sifts Through the lids of our eyes ...
Light sinks and rusts In water; is broken By glass ... rests On deserted dust.
Light lies like torn Paper in corners: A rock-pool's pledge Of the sea's return.
Light, wrenched at the edges By wind, looks down At itself in wrinkled Mirrors from bridges.
Light thinly unweaves Itself through darkness Like foam's unknotting Strings in waves ...
Now light is again Accumulated Swords against us ... Now it is gone.