It’s one of those nights
where the sky is ink
behind stars scattered so thick
the shapes of constellations
are obscured.
Tonight, I lie in the grass;
starlight is the only light,
insect song the only sound.
Tomorrow the moon will flirt
below the horizon,
the air grow heavy—
humidity will spray a dull wash
across the arc of planets—
the march of the Zodiac will be veiled
and the howls
of the coyotes seem closer,
as if they are just beyond
the nearest ring of trees.
-Patricia Thrushart
No comments:
Post a Comment