The russet dusk.
Trees like knives’ shadows.
Unoaked woodsmoke
and headlights that unravel
into air. I am running out of time
to memorize the world:
the nightjar’s bleat; those first,
thirsty stars; the final hungry
sparrows, unlucky but alive.
Lucky tomorrow, maybe.
A lonely, ribbeting wood
that has no moon.
The kneeling deer. A moon
tomorrow, maybe.