—by some happenstance
or, dare I say, the hands of God,
limbs and leaves sway before cornflower
clouds and a maize-shaded moon.
And, for just a moment,
they all perfectly align.
The scene opens
as crickets drone persistently
into the quiet night.
Between every long, lengthy drawl,
even the cricket must pause
to take rest.
Somewhere nearby in the black woods
the barred owl glides—the same one that
came swooping down before me
earlier as I ran
along the edge of the lake—
her majestic wings spread,
subtle as a sail in soft winds and
silent as a shadow.
And that pudgy toad, who I met some months ago,
is still hopping in the weeds
far up the road.
towering above the great standing stones
of the metropolises,
above the lighthouses
that crowd distant shores,
above jagged, jutting peaks
and silver soaring jets,
beyond the barred owl and the toad,
behind drifting clouds
and limbs and leaves,
set upon the dark, dappled sky,
the old moon stands robed in light.