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166 | ecotone Hungry mark irwin I’m hungry for the leaves, their ochre and blaze, hungry for their evening and the sun’s hammer. Hungry for the dusk filled with musty scent of apple and grape, hungry for the trill of crickets, and for the first stars. So hungry I drive a stake into the ground for each one and grow hungrier as it grows darker. I’m hungry for the constellations, for that one striding like an ichthyosaur across the night sky. Hungry for the pitch-black above that reminds me of words, their names for things beyond what they are, and for the feelings they carry on which I gorge. ...


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