(Photo by Tim Mccord in http://www.space.com)
The last strands of daylight are consumed by the dusk,
two geese glide overhead sounding noisy and brusque
there’s a calmness on the prairie; a slight stir in the trees.
the paper I’m reading bends to the breeze
and we all await ….the Supermoon.
The small moon sits ominously atop the horizon like a cap
due east from where I’m sitting with my dog in my lap
here on the porch leading out to the deck
as we wait for the moon to change from a speck
and we hope that that change…. is soon.
The city lights are twinkling five miles to the east
the moon’s in its climb and transforming to a beast
The crickets are clicking and the frogs sing their tune
a hoot owl hoots and, expectantly, the coyote will…. soon
as the little speck is now big and wide.
From where I am sitting it’s hidden by the trees
as I grab my binoculars and stumble through leaves
fresh fallen on the yard as if it were fall
and I’ll mow them again and not get them all
but for now I’ll just kick them aside.
Imperceptibly has appeared a glow in the dark
on the grass, ‘cross the fields, on the buildings and bark
of the trees now stilled by a silence unknown
and an eerie sensation all around has grown
as the Supermoon shines from above.
The hairs on my neck all raise in salute.
The moment is mystical; profoundly acute.
The city lights are dimmer as the light from each star.
The glow has now faded…. here and afar
but the ”glow” moment we shared….was loved.
t. j. gargano
In early spring, they appeared almost every night ’round dusk for nearly a month, to the point that I would sit and wait for them and was disappointed the one evening, they didn’t.
Two Wayward Geese
At dusk they come low….. banking out of the west
‘cross the creek near the barn, where the cattle all rest,
then over the trees just east of the house
looking down in the yard at the cat and the mouse
before turning left and angling north.
They’re hard to see, just two spots in the sky,
but it’s easy to hear their loud, noisy cry
as they angle now west over the highway below
and back o’er the creek….. flying over it low
as they constantly squawk back and forth.
Two wayward geese the flock left behind;
escaped the hunter down in the blind
looking around for a new place to stay
with a whole lot of water and a safe place to play
and be safe from predators all around.
They circle three times, just before dark;
their path is near perfect, nary missing the mark
in precision flying that boggles the mind…
their wings never touching…..in close align
their flight into darkness…..profound.
I wait every night for the beckoning call
of these two wayward geese and their display of gall
that pierces the quietness of the calm prairie night
interrupting all pattern… of what’s in their sight
as they scream in high pitch from above.
I know I will miss’em when all’s said and done
and hope it’s not ended by the sound of a gun
this routine they fly over the creek every day
at dusk when the twilight is fading away
when they slip through the darkness…..in love.
T. J. Gargano