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Only blue
behind a swollen orange moon
dropping western before dawn,
and stars seen from the bottom,
where teeming I lay thinking, in
a cattail field invading, standing
tall and drinking in the morning
ever filling from a very old well.
Walking through the wetland
in the distant early dew,
came a story from a great owl,
in a tree hit by lightning,
of a certain aging raven,
who would have changed the world—
if he wasn’t busy cawing,
swooping black in a fit marauding,
flying onyx to the morning,
and forgetting one and all.
And still
the mirrored morning shudders
with a sudden recognition
of the face looking in it,
as it begins to disappear,
like the thin horizon,
the body is always ending,
the orange moon is falling
in the dawn ever growing
in the mist, in the blue so near.
