The Tower Journal, Spring/Summer 2014
The dead moon spits columns of light
Over a field where the screech owl
Shakes herself loose from day’s
Camouflage. Wings press into the night
Hunt with a low whistle. Coyote’s howl
Is a twang that tilts and ricochets
In the grove. Shadows & sprites twist
Over themselves in the deeper dark
As the moon settles in
Across the shallow pond of moss, mist
And fire. Is she satellite or sentry, this spark
That watches the world loop and spin?
Does she guard or ground us? Is lunar
Press a blessing or a curse? The moon binds
And breathes motion into tidal seas
With passing interest. But this rock, no sooner
Disavowed in static orbit, finds
Purchase in our myths, which wrest and ease
Us back into the night.