We unload the freight of day
as night wraps up what day has told.
There’s not much more to say—
myself in shade, eagle in her hold;
both are restless in day’s throes.
None begin understand
what comes with night,
where day’s light goes.

Few know the ground,
the place we stand.

Still, a worm in earth makes way.
A cardinal, blood red, in a maple’s crown
is more tuned than I am
to the stuff the earth displays:
what lifts it up and presses down.

What’s hidden keeps us on the edge
with those we love our only hedge

by Jim Culleny

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