Moths don’t fear me any more. Settle at leisure
on sink and shade, row so slowly
the beat of their wings
stir the hairs on my face.
Each day is shorter, each sun less eager.
It’s the season of harvest, nuts and clusters,
mushroom-haunted dawns and dusks,
fattened calves, serious thoughts
about fixing roofs and getting older.
The light we longed for spirals closer,
overflowing every facet
of our compound eyes.
Photo by Jim Brekke on Flickr
