it is pushing midnight,
and I am sitting at the picnic table
in the yard behind our home
wisps of white cloud scud above.
the moon higher now – earlier
it hovered over the delta,
light rippling from it:
a yellow road rippling down
from the edge of the Atlantic,
following the Merrimac,
across the chop,
wavery highway, a rougte towards the harbor.
the stars are echoes of past light.
cold air around me,
hair blowing.
thoughts blown by other winds,
pushed by other hands.
I am alone, behind this house.
I am quiet under this canopy I cannot fathom.
Writer Moe 