It was a night of unheard-of quiet
in some remote park
where shadows of dark, leafy trees
rested on a calm pond.
The faint fragrance of summer’s end
still hung in the air.
No branch ever stirred. The world
had ceased to exist.
What somber question hovered there
sable weight of night, shrouding my
being, my life, me?
In that vast silence it felt so right
to die alone . . .
But how on earth could I have faced
my final hour?
Had there been a bird call,
instead of that silent omen,
I could’ve lain down in peace and
the dark calm of fading dreams . . .
But no, I ducked in fear when,
rushing out of nowhere, that sudden
strange, dark shape flitted past;
and ever since I fled the pond’s brink,
a mute, unspeakable something
has remained . . .
untold . . .