But the light fell on him,
the brushed-back green light,
a tidal surge of trees and brush
poised over a plowed field.

Not the light on flat storefronts,
late afternoon amber light
that shoves men into their chairs.

But the brushed-back green light
I run through to clear out the distance
between myself and a farm, its silos
like porch lights.

I walk through this light to leave
Footprints in the plowed field for him
to find when he works it again.

It’s the light that reflects
against trees at sunset. It’s good
to be silent and watch shadows
rise, a river at floodstage.

It’s the light that hangs in the trees
I walk toward when the woods are all dark.

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