Cicerone
A narrow creek.
Night falls, I know the way,
even so
your hand guide's mine.
Your shoes can swim,
your arms can fly,
but you are not here
or anywhere,
just a presence,
a chaperone,
ushering me
upon an instinctual way.
I think you might be
the all-seeing spirit of an owl,
or some other nocturnal watcher.
Not a ghost,
not feathers or flesh,
just a shadow of heaven
by a narrow creek
where the dark travels.
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