soon only backlit, except for streetlampsí
ambient blank. But then I noticed
cars moving between trees
and on the next block, porch lights
and lighted windows half given
over to blinds. Finally the last
in the harvest of lightning bugsó
just one or two, really, like tugboats
into some depth (once a regression
of poppies swallowed by the infinite)ó
went out in time to draw the ear in
to the soughing of the treetops
and a private plane somewhere,
invisible, pulling its weight.
And that pulled the eyes after it, up,
beyond the darkened green to the smooth,
featureless presence of the sky,
until they were finally on their own
and useless at the same time,
as if the end of sight were
the point of sight.
More by David Ringsbee at: http://www.theadirondackreview.com/featuredrigsbee.html
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