As water turns into vapor, I turn. Observe black paper bits flying from the open fire.
All the paper in the world dissolves – before me is the silent land, an unpretentious quiet.
It is a good hour – a space separate from worldly affairs, from monetary gain.
I pick a brown stick, a bit smudged, poke and rotate it around, look up at the stars.
I wonder if men in power would see the black outline of an oak – a thousand years old – a life without signatures.
Across the way is a reflecting pond where men gather by water. They forgo gleaming brown tables, let their faces see not their own
reflections – deep in the pool they find silver fish. Taking off suits of power, they roll down dark socks, wade in warm spring water.
Sparse hair slicked back, eyes hidden by trees, white and veined, they meet again.
Silence of the night the only news, round bellies newly nourished, have a feeling of nature, of safe havens.
They join hands – not as men do – they join hands as spirits might, The claws retract, hands become feathers, now purple-winged.
Reminds of what happens when a dying land, bereaved of clean water, is moved back to filing cabinets.
Reminds how poorly made laws seep into souls, become false illuminations.
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Debra Bailey has been published in an online magazine, MockingHeart Review. She enjoys reading and writing poetry. From Louisiana, originally, she now lives in colder weather.
