Gilded


Quail on the cusp of darkness
explore between the grass blades
for remnants from yesterday’s rain
while clouds face off
against the sunset. The mysteries
are flying home to roost: is light
the universe’s way to suggest
that mountains have a soul? Is it
music transcribed
when the ridgeline is a fingerboard?
Or the alchemy by which
the flicker, opening its wings, scatters
gold dust from beneath them.

 

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Words and image by David Chorlton


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