This night in cold moonlight earth rises up clouds float down ghosts walk the margin. Old ones sing now shall be then older ones still sing then shall be once to wolf and coyote. In this season of north winds sun’s heat barren spirits rise up dreams descend man lies interspersed. Women sing we are bearers men sing we are sowers.
She is a small woman dressed in white, save for black platform slingback pumps and cherry red eyeglass frames. She hunches forward in her seat seeming as though she might collapse, pouring over tables and graphs – biochemical research papers. You measure the depth of her attention by the frequency with which she pulls single strands of hair from her banded ponytail, strokes them gently, then, as if noticing they have gone astray, tries to tuck them back in. She pauses this ritual only to annotate the paper’s margins in mechanical pencil in a small, cramped hand, barely legible. You know she has reached the paper’s conclusion when she strokes that soft space between those in upper lip as though a teenage boy hoping one day soon to grow a mustache.
Horizons are the thing we have they greatest trouble with. They are omnipresent, immutable and yet move at our approach. They are at once inviting and fear inducing, though now we are largely convinced they do not mark the edge of a precipice over which we would catapult into some endless abyss crossing their margin. As we age we are allowed nearer and they see less foreboding though we struggle to keep eyes open knowing that too soon enough we will close them finally and step across into the abyss.
In our small world night and day are separated by dreams that escape just beyond our consciousness. We search for deeper meaning even as we are certain they will leave us as they have long before we could remember. That is the trouble with margins, they ebb and flow without warning, their arrivals and departures unannounced, so listen carefully and embrace the silence.