Eclogue Hidden in the Trunk of a Tree

We are heading to the border on footwith our son who is very ill, pausing onlyto write this note to you and hide it herein this dark wood, the spot agreed upon,uncertain if you will receive it. Guardspatrol the mountains, and always nowthere is the smell of smoke, and winds rise upbringing the black leaves off the trees in sheets,a sound like the tearing of paper. Last nightthe bits of quartz that caught the moonlightblinked this warning to me as we walked:Turn back. They're waiting for you up ahead.The world might seem to hover on the cuspof clarity, it might appear that newtransmissions will start creeping through the chaosany day, a harmony that will reveal things,transcendent things. But no: the universehas long outlived its usefulness. This is the end.I pass this message on to you, and thenmust go: the dark gesticulating willowsknow where we are hiding, and conspirein semaphore. The time may come when wewill see each other, but until we do,beware: the stars, the roads, the swaying weeds,the white geese bathing in a brackish pond—all things conceal and are not what they seem.The clouds may look like clouds, but don'tforget our enemies control the wind. In rainand spreading shadows they slink through the world.