Lughnasa Waxing Harvest Moon
A night time of memories, a star dust state of mind, hearing the tenor sax and the clarinet in the distance, touching the hand of one I love, singing ourselves to sleep.
Feel like a shadow facing the moon, happy to be safe, blending in.
Have you ever flown over a darkling forest, felt your feathers buffeted by breezes pushing the trees aside? Heard the small ones running, skittering, trying to get out of the way as you pass over head? Then you know what it is to be a bird of prey, one death symphony on the wing.
These are the hours of quiet, the muffled world fades and the cicada sings. Perhaps the only noise comes from clouds passing by in front of the moon, a whisper of weather as it moves on to its next appointment.
Silent here now. The sax and the clarinet have faded away, the owl has gone to its perch, the clouds have gone to Wisconsin and I’m here alone.
