Somewhere between shed and barn
he enters the heart of the fog.
Everything trembles, lets go and falls away
like icicles in spring.
In white space he waits breathless.
One sharp birdsong splits the veil thin as itself.
Silence fills the rent as quickly as night
heals the wound of a star's falling.
He awakes in the heart of the fog,
marvels at the weight
of the bucket pulling at his hand,
of himself pressing into the earth.