Dim are the moving shadows in these trees

somehow ominous the way the light glares

like a world cut of darkness

made only for the shapes that move here

Something industrial is grinding away at the forest

machinery whines shake the empty branches

and the floodlights, unceasing, blind the rest

Those shapes and shadows watch the center

intent on some faceless thing in this nameless place

and now a hole has opened in their ranks

All backs are turned on my approach

as crawling out of shadow into incandescence

I go to fill the gap, to join the watching and the still

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I miss getting lost in old bookstores for hours on end.

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Photo by Daniel van den Berg on Unsplash