. . . the trace of the fugitive gods, the track into the dark of the world’s night.
Martin Heidegger

Coming home, I feel the night
withdraw.  The soft, thin edge
of the planet’s shadow
angled low across the sky.

The sun still below
the horizon’s rim.  Dawn
ten minutes away, its light being bent
to a brilliant orange
eye by the winter air.

Treetops and rooflines emerge
from the void, like a ship
on some vast sea of shadow
trailing off to the west,
and then back into space,
falling out through the flat
black forever.

Hear it:





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