by Adam Horovitz


The wood is cut and darkness sighs

its needle shower of yew-green light,

of brown stems in the ragged hedge.

Stars pucker on the cusp of sight

and, startling from the woodland’s edge,

the moon is an owl; its cries


changing the track of the sea.

The stream sings out in reverse,  

a song of solidness, of creak,

as if water needed to rehearse

the change of seasons, or to speak

a human tongue in sympathy.


I hum the water's song, the shallow

breath that shatters on the path  

in footsteps, startling a deer,

then slide indoors to wood the hearth

and spark an answer to the fear

of winter; a flickering hallow


that scatters the long night's shadow up the wall

and frees me, briefly, from the vixen's numbing call.

© Adam Horovitz