Places #1: Shouting

It’s strange that we don’t usually remember

the moment we see our face in the window

of a quickly passing car

Because honestly this is

the comforting hand 

of an old friend

placed briefly on our shoulder

Instead we forgetfully imagine

that places might reveal ourselves from without

Not realizing we are still looking

for a reflection that does not exist

except maybe in the now distant pull

of a slowly waxing moon.


This morning the sun gave me a whispered wave

its own face sad in a passing car

At the time I was noticing just how much of this place

we’ve managed to voice—

or rather, shout—

as only a single answer 

to a wondrously astronomical question.


A coyote

or maybe a crane

watched from afar,

the center of an imperceptible hum of dragonflies at her feet

she was certain that I was a child:

shouting, as if only my answer were the only to be heard

it might be more than the shimmering phosphorescence 

of an otherwise dim night. 

Kyle Studstill