Shifting

All of us crammed in there

like buffalo standing before water at nightfall, looking ahead.

All of us shadows and shapes, quietly shifting.

     That day being your face, and the constant threat of rain,

the air seeming thick as the ground.       Your face

                          being the saddest thing I have ever seen.

Then the weight of our footsteps

                                      outside the church.

The soft tread of us, our press into the grass;

     temporary craters on soft earth and proof of us being alive,

a dissatisfied herd breathing quietly, waiting to act as one.