Moonlight passing through a gin bottle. A tree
using the last of the day's light
to inscribe its shadow
on a wind-flattened group of weeds. The river,
which keeps saying its own name. Once, I didn't speak
for a month. In those days, birds called at me
from all directions. Sometimes, I mistook their voice for mine.
When I closed my eyes
I saw shards of light. Inside the shards
snow was falling.