Time Is a Graceless Enemy, but Purls as It Comes and Goes

I’m winding down. The daylight is winding down.
                                                                    Only the night is wound up tight.
And ticking with unpaused breath.
Sweet night, sweet, steady, reliable, uncomplicated night.

September moon, two days from full,
                                                                    slots up from the shouldered hill.
There is no sound as the moon slots up, no thorns in its body.
Invisible, the black gondola floats
                                                         through down-lid and drowning stars.

In Memory of the Natural World

Four ducks on the pond tonight, the fifth one MIA.
A fly, a smaller than normal fly,
Is mapping his way through sun-strikes across my window.

Behind him, as though at attention,
                                                                         the pine trees hold their breaths.
The fly’s real, the trees are real,
And the ducks.
                                   But the glass is artificial, and it’s on fire.