Beginning

 The moon drops one or two feathers into the fiels.

The dark wheat listens.

Be still.

Now.

There they are, the moon's young, trying
Their wings.

Between trees, a slender woman lifts up the lovely shadow
Of her face, and now she steps into the air, now she is gone
Wholly, into the air.

I stand alone by an elder tree, I do not dare breathe
Or move.

I listen.

The wheat leans back toward its own darkness,
And I lean toward mine.

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