Beginning by James Wright
The moon drops one or two feathers into the fields.
The dark wheat listens.
Now.There they are,
the moon's young,
Between trees, a slender woman lifts up the lovely
Of her face,
and now she steps into the air,
now she is gone
Wholly, into the air.
I stand alone by an elder tree,
I do not dare breathe
The wheat leans back toward its own darkness,
And I lean toward mine.