James Wright: Beginning

 The moon drops one or two feathers into the field.
The dark wheat listens. 
Be still.
Now. 
There they are, the moon's young, trying
Their wings.
Between trees, a slender woman lifts up the lovely shadow
Of her face, and now she steps into the air, now she is gone
Wholly, into the air.
I stand alone, by an elder tree, I do not dare breathe
Or move. 
I listen.
The wheat leans back toward its own darkness,
And I lean toward mine. 


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(i Above the River: The Complete Poems and  Selected Prose)