We live in the light. Mostly.
Our home is a village
Perhaps a city.
Our bodies encased in fabric
Smooth glass against our fingertips
Waxy balm on our lips.
We know that we are not
The whole world.
Although this thought only
Comes to us sporadically.
Looking up from the
Garbage can at night
The stars speak to us.
Crushing a spider
We feel that much safer.
We know the deer at the
Edge of the woods must pass
A watchful night.
And fishes glide under
Tons of salty water
Even darker before the
Sun rises.
We are outnumbered
By birds
Less organized
Than bees or ants.
Yet our village, our mirrors
Are the world to us.
Our voices, our songs
Fill the silence
That we never hear.
Our tongues, our throats
Touch the animals that
We tell ourselves that we are not.
The wild place always
Outside, away, apart.
Within we are
Tamed, surrounded
Under the glow
Of our many lamps.

David Chase
Sacramento, CA
May 2017