I See You I Said

I was moving clouds. I was,

you already know this, the

falling body softening. I was

feeding the birds sunflower

seeds and tiny slips of light.

Yesterday, horses in the pasture,

let loose down the hill. I said

they were black once. I said

they were two, reedy dark things:

a sleeping field, a dry and

velvet sky.  It was possible

to see which branches moved

forward and which recede. I was

walking around that same lake:

apparition, moving muscle,

water body. In the sense that

all of this has happened before.

Whether the birds or the thicket.

Something waving, not frantic.

I see you, I said and kept walking.

​​Liane Tyrrel is a visual artist and poet. Her poems are published or forthcoming in Poetry Northwest, Guesthouse Lit, Small Orange and Volume Poetry among others. She walks with her dog on the back roads and in the woods and fields of New Hampshire where she lives.