Creatures like us are not meant
to know the secrets of earth
and moon at twilight. Quiet!
and look: the shroud of fog
recedes from the looking-glass lake.
Pine and poplar stand
sentinel, more alert and steady
in their reflection than on their mossy
banks. They’re waiting for the moon
and her glance above the shoulder
of the forest. Higher still,
she regards herself one long
last time before her lonesome
overhead obligations commence.