cremation ovenbird Suddenly it is dusk and my eyesight is failing with the flagging sun, with age, with too many dreams deferred. There are swallows flying low over Scots Pond and their voices close the day. I am blind to everything but the faraway fires of a million stars that settle on the backs of my retinas and populate my optic nerve. I must feel my way by heart-light while a chorus of coyotes give meaning to the night. Language falls from my mouth into a blackened heap at my feet. The wind carries off the ashes of all the words that died in my throat before ever living into the light. 250425 what's it to you? who go blather from