Of all the deities,
she rises quickly
as we spin eastward
into the present tense
illuminated in a dark sky.
The gray seems blue,
oak trees in fright, filigreed
with filtered light rising free
of earthly probabilities—
after all is said and done.
The natives need wild gods
and goddesses to endure
the nonsense, the unfeeling
truth with no hues offered
for love or compassion.
Busy days before a pineapple express arrives
with a forecast two-inch rain before Christmas,
we wait with a glass of wine for meat on the fire,
for the Wagyu bulls trucked from Idaho in the
super moonlight over Donner, down Highway 99
to be unloaded, we watch the ridgeline, see a coyote
laughing in precursor clouds, hear him giggle
across the creek and we are lifted with our eyes
to all the celestial possibilities we don’t want
explained. It is enough to be found and noticed
as the moon peeks through the oak trees, to be
together like children howling with what they see.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2016, Ranch Journal
Tagged moon, photography, poetry, rain, super moon
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