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Molly Fisk: Hunter’s Moon

Mid-December, dusk, and the sky

slips down the rungs of its blue ladder

into indigo. A late-quarter moon hangs

in the air above the ridge like a broken plate

and shines on us all, on the new deputy

almost asleep in his four-by-four,

lulled by the crackling song of the dispatcher,

on the bartender, slowly wiping a glass

and racking it, one eye checking the game.

It shines down on the fox’s red and grey life,

as he stills, a shadow beside someone’s gate,

listening to winter. Its pale gaze caresses

the lovers, curled together under a quilt,

dreaming alone, and shines on the scattered

ashes of terrible fires, on the owl’s black flight,

on the whelks, on the murmuring kelp,

on the whale that washed up six weeks ago

at the base of the dunes, and it shines

on the backhoe that buried her.

From Listening to Winter, #4 in the California Poetry Series, The Roundhouse Press/Heyday, 2000.


One comment on “Molly Fisk: Hunter’s Moon

  1. janfalls
    December 11, 2017

    gorgeous imagery and feeling sense – thank you Molly, I will think of you as I look up at the late-quarter moon tonight.

    Liked by 1 person

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This entry was posted on December 11, 2017 by in Environmentalism, Poetry and tagged , , .

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