Thursday, July 18, 2013

Legions of Darkness


by Jim Rapp

Driving north in Minnesota
on Interstate Thirty-five
just before sunset,
I was startled to see,
a long line of shadows
silently rushing at me
from the west,
hugging the ground,
leaping over depressions,
flowing over obstacles
with an elasticity that science
has yet to master.

As they swept over the car
I recalled that my shadow,
an image of the van
that gave it birth, had,
just moments before,
been romping along
to the right of the car,
playfully shaping itself
to the contours of the land,
stretching farther
and farther afield
as the sun went down.

In panic I needed to
reign it in, to call it back,
but before I could speak
it had joined the dark legions
rushing away to the east,
driven by Sol’s last beams,
and soon my shadow
was far beyond
the sound of my call.

At sunset the dark host,
its harvest of shadows in tow,
slipped over the eastern horizon,
beyond the pain of Sol’s glance,
bearing my shadow away;
whether a prisoner of war
or a willing recruit
I will never know.

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