Muerto de la Noche

A solitary soul stirs
this night around
its geared dial.

Icy on the rocks,

all that matters
bends the steel air
sparks subdue any singes

While other carbon bodies
lie in their nests
heaving gentle breaths
through resting rib cages
my feathers fall out
and the kitten chases them
under the couch.

Watching the speed of time
and loaded with momentum,
and anticipation
for the light that breaks

anything it touches,

it dawned over me,
 (after all) an awareness
that all feathers fall
at the same speed coin wishes
sink
under the weight of water-

sometimes out of sight.

The brown widow and I weave
simultaneous gossamer threads
from what we have left
of the night that never
imposes its intimate knowledge

without our consent

and an entwined desire
to witness this place
we seem to not belong
but are required to prey in
for survival.

The kitten purrs in a ball,
the humans snore, fetal in their beds,
while I draw out long lines
the nocturnal pace
themselves
into the unforgivable light.


Artwork by Vilhelm Hammershøi (1864-1916), 'Figure reading at a table at night', medium-chalk, c. 1891 in Public Domain.

Nocturnal trees

See these
These are nocturnal trees.
Smell them.
Smell them
in deeply. Take thier scent away. With you.
They are not disturbed easily.
They are the kind
with night vision
in tones of chlorophyll

if you trust inklings, as in sense,
hints like notes of new saplings, young.

And it is simply our symbiotic nature,
a pair, apparently, a part.
These people.
These trees.
The leaves.
Branches, hands, bark
wave with symmetrical measures.

They, they, all day,
stealing each others breath away
naturally. Dancing. Aglow in green envy.
Tiny white feathers fly
the falcon feasts naturally
the tree is happy to night.



Painting by Caspar David Friedrich, c. 1819, Two men contemplating the moon, in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Super Moon 2016

Shadows at night
where wolves delight
soloists under spotlight
weaves and watches
the carnal illuminators
make mythic obscurities
to taste to night.

The frozen pine aches fixed
posing proper around the palisade
bats swing silently in the eave
while a couple of country owls
seek around in unisong
for the fox that plays the child
while the puma preys, and remains wild.

An hour more magical miscreancy
left to fancy fullness in excess
lavishly luna lends her silver linings
in phantom phases
bewitched but ever grave
over night like this luscious

black sea, velvet
tidings in abundance
this softer sway
to ward
the lite of tapering
day, courtship comes
home.



Image credit: unknown, (source: social media share) account holder anonymous.