The cool sluggish crash
that the deer and turkey makes
the wind in the green almost
yellow leaves, tall trees

like the ones in Central Park.
For these birds: they always
find their way back home.
Even bees. When it rains.

They fly upon invisibles
waves of branches, air
that we artist breath.
Not to see, but to hear

the dark night; blind
as a bat flying in the cabin,
as lost, in the wilderness
with the eyes wide closed.

Not to see, but to fear,
stumbling across the bear,
tumbling into the trail;
target eyes, nose and mouth.

Ring the bells, sing to
inferno. And kiss
the mole cricket. And kiss
the white spider. And kiss

the static moths, resting,
attracted to the sparkling
light, irresistible
to the flames of hell.

It is a kind of promise,
desire, sweet delusion
if I got to hallucinate,
her, again, in this

daily life, beyond that
star, ¿whose eyes have not been
attracted to bright (burning)
stars, like moths, shimmering

into the dark glass window?
Owl is the wisdom
night, the absolute