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Solar eclipse over Columbia, among magnolia and monuments ⦾ Birds shriek and seek nests in two o'clock dusk ⦾ A cooling of the air as the cars slow and stop ⦾ Then god's raging black face is revealed at last, impotent and wild-haired, straining to strike ⦾ Philosophers and children cower in darkened rooms ⦾ The shadows of leaves and the shadows of clouds are largely the same ⦾ The sky has been utterly blotted

A fly lands on my hand and I'm surprised at the heat of its body ⦾ The dark back of a cardinal passes before my face and I'm surprised at the color of its wings ⋯ the singed rusty red of splintered wood in a hearth, or of a hornet's nest in an oak tree ⦾ It is beauty ⦾ I understand nothing but feel more than enough ⋯ a raw empty pain beneath my ribs ⋯ a strange pressure at the base of my skull

The moon is an anagram ⋯ it's a shape you remember from somewhere else, an animal you've seen in a dream ⦾ The blackness is still advancing ⦾ Now it's three and pitch dark ⋯ fully night again ⦾ The birds have gone quiet ⋯ the cars have all stopped ⦾ We're back exactly where we started, surrounded by stasis, cement, and secession