Above us, the wind leans into nothing.
Below, fenceposts mark the long retreat
of boundary lines no one remembers drawing.
Somewhere beyond this paddock,
a child flicks a torch on and off—
signalling to no one,
or to the stars.
High overhead,
a satellite drifts,
blind but listening.
Closer in,
a man stacks firewood
by feel alone,
his breath silver
in the cold.
He doesn’t look up.
Not at the planets
looping like tired horses.
Not at the slow-failing light
that’s taken years to reach us.
He just finishes the job,
wipes his hands on his jeans,
and goes inside—
leaving the porch lamp on,
a small promise against the dark.
Ryan Stone
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