Voices on the Wind
by Lars Samson
It erects a line, splitting Earth. In front,
Day. Behind, Night.
Black tides seep ahead where peaks
and other silhouettes stand taller. In waters
that swallow reflections.
Mountains lock shoulders, damming a sea of light
that recedes slower than can be seen. Course
It leans into line, fixed on the horizon. Not seeing
the opposite confluence has no border. Simply light
blending black to gray. Dissipating
It canít see the dance of Day and Night: touching
fingertips, entwining bodies in early dawn. It
doesnít understand Nightís other shore
bears a new Day.