In the deepest night
the woods are not black
but are ebon-green;
soundlessly cold wind rallies
in the gaps of the underbrush
aloft alongside zephyrs
gray and deep lilacs on black
the color of moonlessness
in dark meadows motionless
waves despite the churn
underwater horizons outlined in indigo
and out I go in a spin
that old green magic: horizontal
– a will-o’-the-wisp doing backfloats
with viewpoint shifted sailing slowly steadily up
lost in the monochromatic.

Chagall 2018