The morning I left
I stood outside before, I thought,
anyone else was awake and watched the first full moon of this year’s winter set over the Catskills
while pink sun rose behind my back.
Held there, between layers of field, forest, marsh, river,
mountain, and clear sky, everything stilled
except for the breath of the scribe’s white stone floating above sleeping hills.
After a while, another figure walked across the thawing grass below—
gait like the doe that made her way slowly by in the protection of the early quiet
on another one of these cold mornings.
They took a seat in a lone chair left in the field,
turned their gaze up beyond the thinning maples and the Hudson
and we rested in the company.