Mist on the still fields' early dawn.
Pregnant with false perception,
I fall below the horizon.
On occasion clouds obscure me,
Sometimes I am so thin you look right through me,
Or you don’t even raise your eyes.
Cast down at the floor or to your hand,
Oblivious days distend to weeks.
Yet I am still here, constant, stalking
An incipient tiptoeing presence then a sudden ambush!
A spiked bright sickle jagged in your eye
I am eternally present, where were you.
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