The Last Of The Harvest Moon

The last of the Harvest Moon
slips to a shining sliver,
thinly veiled by fine clouds
rushing east.

Summer’s lushness withers;
fields plowed in,
roots dug up;
flocks rise and wing south.

Come now moonless nights of black;
the wheeling Milky Way,
Orion the hunter—
sword glittering—
the bull’s eye gleaming red.

Come now.

Soon the Hunter’s Moon will rise
to warn the buck,
the bright woods fill
with smoke from campfire
and gunshot,
and hope. - Patricia Thrushart


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