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Optics
A low wind
prowls like a tiger in the long reeds.
Water rats race across a brook
creating arrowheads
through the stream.
From a tufted hillock
I watch small fish darting,
chasing edibles
too small for eyes to see.
The fish have no name
that I can recall.
For an instant
I too am nameless,
both lost and found.
Now the wind tugs at my coat,
dragonfly-wings flicker-by –
an iridescent perception
that glimpses only itself,
a presence that is both found
and lost.
Copyright ©
Eric Ashford
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