Leslie Ullman

Issue #
September 6, 2013

At the End of Daylight Savings

sunlight still glares off the road like trumpet sound.
Birds still thicken the air with messages
at dawn, a telegraphy that fills the morning

too full for one pair of ears—
one might as well listen with the whole body.
And then take that listening

to the base of the mountain whose creases
are dusted with snow already sure
of its place before the months lengthen

and darken, each crystal soon to be fed by
clouds and swells of wind that will drive it
into deeper configurations.

Then the mountain will glow faintly
even at night—especially at night—sculpture,
perfection, apparition that will pour an is-ness

over each dormant bush and distracted eye. Even now,
even those who have never been on speaking terms
with God have no choice but to open

to something that sears and consoles
beneath jackets newly unpacked for the season: how clouds
and their leavings change the light on the mountain

but not the shape of its silence.

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