Baring

Standing under a string of satellites, the night, a black kite, I lean out of my body. No wind, no fog. Remembering this place is part of the sky, too.

Some animal voice in the distance sounds lonely. Mice in the woodpile are moving.

Most of my life, a vigilance. The rest, a weariness. But for moments like this, where I feel wilder and more expansive than the wrappings of this skin.

Even dressed in layers, a hand-knit scarf around my neck, there is this nakedness. Call it little soul or shock of light.

I used to believe that mercy came from beyond, from other, from neccesity. No. Whatever that nakedness is, it doesn’t need another layer.

Notice how the cold feels good, so good to feel the cold.