The sky is a dusty plum hue washed up into darkness; the mountains beyond
the lake look bruised with scarlet and lavender. The imagination focuses there,
in the mountains, where anything might be. Goats climbing with bells hung
beneath their throats, a cottage with smoke bending from its chimney into
night’s sky; clouds lifting, blanket of star fields, tonight.
Is there a place where dusk lingers not for minutes but days, a place
where the night sky opens as slowly and unexpectedly as hyacinth bloom? I long
for this place. I want nothing of the brusque colors of morning. The outer
world of winter calls to me when the shadows of the day fall long across the
field. The sky clots with pre-dusk clouds that tangle their way into a distance
of longing, a sky-scape of ache. Here, the body, a fledgling spirit in the ancient
world, pulses with loneliness, a holy water.