| OCR Text |
Show 5*2- Talking to Shadows No road to this place, dry wash, arroyo, thicket, defile, the backtrail scoured of hesitant footprints by a cold wind at twilight. Small moving bodies, unseen, pose riddles in the rustling brush. The fire is dead, the air alive with the whisper of passing forms, the wavebeat of hunger. A slant of moonlight carves ancestral faces on the cliff, pirfon and juniper toss night shade like dark, ceremonial robes onto fine-grained, silver sand. Rumors roam the mesa, bodiless, trailed by suspicious breezes, ancient bones creak like deadwood, mock the circle of green boughs, lipless mouths shape a question that excludes all answer, that wards the smoking rim of the unreasoning circle. The moon falls into the jaws of a black mountain. Emptiness and possibility equal themselves in all directions. Beyond the thrust of eyes, the night opens, the night opens. |
