World Without End

It was on a day quite ordinary that the stream of consciousness bore gifts of green and white and frozen silver, where the old ones walked. For here a boy about to turn away broke off his waking reverie when something, not quite rising as a memory, thrust in upon the scene and bound its peace. From out of history it came to all the tumult, sacrificing time, its blood not stanched but flowing still. He climbs the stockyard fence to watch the mewling ghosts hold sway once more, while just beyond the hill, the pines are sheltering the little owls who never sleep-- their wisdom tractable and flashing from their eyes. ~