Overheated Nocturne

The crescent moon's image is torn by trees again, though the moon itself rides the sky unbroken. My perspective breaks the image, stuck as I am where shadows are flung by the still branches. The moonlight that flecks the lawn is only reflected light reflected, and the pale undersides of leaves I barely see reflect the light again, and I suddenly have the thought that night is a hall of dark mirrors. Am I having fun yet? How did I come to such a carnival? Will there be cotton candy? There's no breeze to play the woody calliope, though, and the street makes an empty midway running down to the orchard where the crickets chirp. It would have been better, I think, had I stayed home— wherever that is.


( Sunday Verse )