Laying by the streams muddy folds,
the stream that crisps and sparks with August’s
dewy 3 A.M. kiss, I close my fist on
tufts of nappy cattails, snapped and trodden
into the bank.
Brown bull frogs bound and flop over and under
the blackened, storm felled, trunks
at the edge of my backyard. They are looking
for the pond I filled with concrete last year
to raise the value of my home.
A rifle cracks somewhere near the tracks
of the coal train and the moon’s eyelids lift
in the gap between 80 foot Hickories.
The mourning dove, covering
Her empty nest, stirs and whistles away.
I hum and the moon quiets its gaze, rolls over
beneath its tattered blanket of vapors,
and the weightlessness of wanting not returns to me
like the breaths I hold
every time I feel you breath in beside me.
