Chandra

A hawk, moments after dawn, circling. Somewhere, somewhere at the edge of near; a somewhere known to the pessimistic as far, as there, as not, not Here. Not near. Occasionally, a flashed shadow over the sun-bleached apricot sky. Just to the West. Where the yellower light spills now over the half-new roof and well-appointed chimney of farm/field/stone. Into the valley of clinging green and the stone wall edge of the Farm where the trees have one and all forgot the late date. They’ve steadfastly, triumphantly, unarguably argued for their summer-earned greens. The moon is so high as to be unknown. There above the maple. There above the shred-ragged, yellowing banana leaves - the makeshift windvane of wavily oversea kelp. Unknown to the crook of neck, to the poor sleepers, to the cheap pillow resters. It is such a slight sliver that it gives a cool shiver to my flesh. The momentary thought of, a splinter of wood getting under skin. The slight sharp sliver of dim silver moon seems so sharp as to threaten to deflate the dim blue, the pale blue October sky.