The moon is essentially a dead world.
Text from an article in the journal “Youth’s Companion” (1891).
—tychogirl
Through binoculars / I leave my narrow world for / an ocean of stars.
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Text from an article in the journal “Youth’s Companion” (1891).
moon full
~
mournful
meditations
Hook-Billed Albatross
She stakes her dreams to the field’s love-shielding
grass at the end of her perforated rainbow. He takes his
turn ensured that she loves him by her food shopping,
house cleaning, love making. The hawk’s nest resists
the wind, remains aloft, agape for eggs and hatchlings,
fertile reminders that measuring time, even if only once per
season, does not slow it down; that migrating King Mackerel
offer themselves in massive schools to even amateur anglers,
as buffaloes had before sported to death. Six-toed cats and trans-
continental reunions emit their cosmic hum. Games and big news
keep connections alive. New friends meet old in a town you
haven’t lived in for twenty-eight years. Opposite colors, orange
blue collide, retract, expand over oysters, not slimy to hide pearls,
but slippery to replicate the activities they supposedly support.
Then a bull gator walks out of Lake Alice, scares drunk frat boys
and walks back in without incident. Our corresponding spouses
see the joy, join in the stories, though they are older. Beer
loosens the social bra straps, allowing a free flow of ideas to
sprout forth. Ibis flock issues screams from Payne’s Prairie, let’s
face it, this prairie is a swamp, Audubon’s swamp, thus stinky.