If sunlight falls on the meadow and nobody is there to feel it,
is it hot?
We know this: the brain cobbles together images from scattered data,
makes movement from a series of stills.
We know this: memories are rewritten every time we look at them.
So what can we trust?
My cat follows the sun, my horse retreats under a tree.
I mark the light’s angle and think of the clock.
Every thing under the sun has its own story to tell.
We know only this: sunlight falls.
On Elk Meadow Road 