On Hills, Time

I have seen the moon become an ear pressed
To the sky, white, cold, listening for you.

Yesterday on hills time has worn low
The grass was grey and stiff with morning frost.

Soon November rain will fall again.
The exuberance of geese is long gone.

A few spruce slouch towards the river.
A sweat of bitter resin beads their bark.

A blue heron’s wing stirs yellowed cattails.
Tonight the moon will hear nothing through the rain.

About John MacKenzie

I'll mumble for ya. Poetry, plus most things quantifiable: science, neuroscience, memory, epistemology, baseball. And so on.
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One Response to On Hills, Time

Mumble back at me

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