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If a man would be alone, let him look at the stars. - Emerson

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One by one the trees die

and the fog their breath fed

dissolves. It too is dead.

At least lifted.

 

                       Blue sky,

cloud-free, empty of all

mysteries, a mountain

scoured, barren, and made bald,

ravaged by rain.

 

                        Starlight

and the moon's ruined red stain

are the same, when mica

shines to reclaim

 

                        Their light.

What these rocks have borrowed

flashes along the sharp ridge.

All the mirror-marked trails

falling away,

 

                    Waiting

to become brighter flares

fueled by bare sunlight,

untamed by tree shadows,

answering to nothing

but open air.