I am out and about in a clear but dark night,
torch in hand, shining into the tree-tops;
beam weak enough not to alarm
roosting birds too much—I am seeking
out the epistemological ambiguity of owls
and tawny frogmouths, as if différance
were my own words fragmented as flashes
and twinges of branches, leaves, claws, feathers.
The locale shudders with interruption,
and something moves rapidly below
through the dry grass as I look up.
In the early morning, small birds
will wind up like ratchets and unfurl,
and the staggering sense of indecision
will finish night movements just begun.