In the Country of Night
Migrating birds
cross the disc
of the full moon,
silhouettes flitting
on a white screen,
like moths caught
in a searchlight beam.
But a moonsworth
is only a fragment of sky,
the visible just an inkling
of all that moves
in darkness.
Coyote, venerable dignitary
of the country of night,
swaggers past me
on patrol.
A family of mule deer,
antlers moon-silvered,
browses on dried grasses,
the old buck
keeping an eye
on the interloper.
A great horned owl
looms high
in the scaffolding
of a dead cottonwood,
scrutinizing all.
What I know is of little use here.
Furless and featherless,
I've forgotten the nocturnal
language of shadows,
the song of bare branches
as they fracture the moon.
