Hanging like a half lit ornament against an opaque background
it looks after me, or down on me.
I can’t tell.
My pores itch to release the heat of the day
into the cool night wind
underneath its dim light.
I let the cool darkness consume
until every inch reaches toward that light
comfortably, rhythmically, by choice.
The submission feels good
and I trust the semicircle in the sky
until next light.
The Bird's Song 