Thousand fields

Thousand fields

If I was to take a photograph
of a photograph
of a field of tall grass
for a thousand days
why do I imagine it would darken?
a shadow shifted
deepening a little in each one
till it is the slick knotting
of a river at night
starlight tugged to threads
revealing the contours
of its twisting tendons

why doesn’t it lighten?
the grain splitting
spilling flames
becoming the white
the blaze of magnesium
of the refiners fire
a choir of candles
brushing the bellies
of barn owls
injecting gold smoke
into the tips of their
silent feathers

*This is a re-imagining of a past poem.

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