In those few moments before the
not-really-dark-enough for
“can’t see my hand in front of my face”
lightlessness
almost conquers dusks gray,
adding shades to shades of night,
but not quite,
when, there, on the surface of the
irrigation pond which ought to be
invisible, but isn’t, is still
still enough to mirror
leafless branches of harvested
wine sap apple trees,
growing, it seems
from beneath the water.

An almost winter almost blackness,
when seeing borders on Vision,
when the answer to,
“Did I see that?”
is “maybe?”
and is right.