An Afternoon in Early Summer

[wakeofpassing]

Cottonwood pilgrims, sojourning to their rest.

They move with purpose in a perfect unison,

or at least a seeming perfect one;

An effortless, unconscious,

Ancient choreography, or a rite

That fills my vision like a filter.

And through this gossamer I can see

The trees and sky and ground

Are somehow changed, made rarefied by the presence,

Or the transience, of these travelers appearing from the treeline.

These few moments are apart,

Are made whole unto themselves, because they

Are filled with the grace and silence

Of which these pilgrims are the heralds

As they some continue on and some find rest

Upon the ground, painting the canvas of their sepulcher

To match the stars scattered across the night sky,

Imperfect mirrors.