Something moves just outside my field of vision,
and the ghost of a shadow flits by me.
I don’t even believe in ghosts.

There’s that stump on our dirt road.
Every time I approach the hill,
I have to remind myself
it isn’t an animal perched there,
ready to run in front of me.

Clouds come alive. Dragons,
pale ocean liners,
the faces of ancient gods.

In the fan of leaves
I see a bird,
in the rustle of grass
a rabbit.

I can’t blame poor eyesight,
but my imagination
that a flitter, a flutter,
a limb, a leaf,
a cloud shadow,
almost anything at all
can set in motion.