Dark Laughter over Spilt Moonlight
When I slide my bedroom window open at two a.m., I hear the sound of breathing.
—The ridge, holding the lavenders and blues of day hostage?
—The ravine, expressway for white-tailed deer (and, I’m told, mountain lions, though I’ve never seen one)?
Is the darkness itself breathing, reassuring us that Gaia will make it through another night sans religion, booze, or a lover?
I go back to bed. At five-thirty Eos—darling girl!—pays a hefty ransom, releasing the colors back to earth and sky.
Cactus wren —empty nest