A crane fly hums—frail, weightless,
circling the tractor, dusk undone.
It is self-reflection and transformation.
Earth’s moon hangs, swollen bright,
watching over the fields.
The full moon spills silver fire
as thrushes dart through hollow briars
in pursuit of endeavors, instinctual.
Shadows stir in hidden places—
forgotten, waiting for day.
Beneath the barn’s bent spine,
cattle at twilight shift and sigh.
Bittersweet nostalgia never reclaimed.
Old age rises with aching bones,
like straw-laden ghosts of summers gone.
By the river, reeds lean close—
a lesson in how to see the divine.
Protection, stability, and moral integrity
seen through the brush with care,
I walk to paint a water lily.
The crow falls—it turns, it dives.
The full moon and little hawk collide.
Loss is violent, yet a moment of calm.
The sky is thick with flitting things,
a murmured hymn of wind and wing.
The fox stirs—its silent step
pressing prints in midnight’s breath.
Lost in someone else’s memory,
tracking through the poet’s mind,
leaving verses, warm and wild.
And through it all, the wind roars
past the thistles, thrashes thin—
where I dwell, forever more,
warm and cold embrace, then part,
as silence folds around the dark.
WoPoLi 
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