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.



Words and image by David Chorlton

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