Читать книгу Trace - Eric Pankey - Страница 12

Edge of Things

I wait at the twilit edge of things,

A dry spell spilling over into drought,

The slippages of shadow silting in,

The interchange of dusk to duskier,

The half-dark turning half-again as dark.

There: night enough to call it a good night.

I wait for the resurrection, but wake to morning:

Mist lifting off the river.

Ladders in the orchard trees although the picking’s done.