When peace surrendered to my mind,
I blamed the quiet sky.
There was not a breath of wind.
Owner of eternal wings—yet I could not fly
towards peace, which became deadening, rapidly,
in the perfect temperature of unmoving calm.
What began as a private evening meal in August
became a slightly darker contemplation in August.
There may have been voices in the distance.
They were strangely familiar.
Isn’t the distance always to blame?
Do you know me? Do you know us?
Hasn’t the mystery always been the same?