LOST HIGHWAYS

Sunlight is black magic,

                                          and transubstantiational even, if

It touches the right thing at the suddenly right time.

Somewhere under the mixed sky is a vacant tranquillity.

A white moth floats into it from out of the pine tree’s shadow,

A small light inside a larger light.

Settling ash and disappearing smoke

Is what we’re left with in all of this.

                                                           I find I abide in my idleness,

And react to what I look at and, it happens, nothing else.

I watch the sunsets defuse.

I watch the ravens return to their darkening trees.