Black silence beneath a waning moonrise:
a golden crescent, Venus trailing. Too hot
for night life, coyotes and raccoons are still
tossing in yesterday’s shade, rewriting
the same line half-a-dozen different ways—
a circular prowling they can’t get beyond
as the sun loops back into a blaze of day.
The night sky is ripe for gazing into the infinite
soul of the universe we can never see clearly,
for homemade theories stirred with myths
and illuminated meteors escaping somewhere—
for calming my delirium with blank paper.
drycrikjournal 