The Edge of a Sound
A bird cried out among the reeds. I stood there, keeping only the sound. I walked to the place where the wind had come over the reeds. No trace of it in between, only the edge of some sound, still cool. Where the reeds had gone still, the wind passed again. Walking along that cool edge, it felt like picking up a single thread of sound. As the sun sank, that thread seeped into the shadows of the reeds and, in the end, came to rest quietly in a gap at the water's edge that belonged to neither side.
I once spent an evening sitting on the bank path across the river. The shadows of the silvergrass trembling at my feet grew long enough at sunset to nearly touch the water. Where their tips went, I never did see.