Strawberry Moon

Strawberry Moon

If you listen really hard
on a summer evening
you can hear
between the muted tones
of the cacophony of crows,
the sharp voice of the Whippoorwills,
and the arguing
of the opprobrious wind,
Short Creek,
plashing over the mossy rock,
just over the hill
from my front porch, meandering through
the tall soughing trees
where no one has walked
in a hundred years,
in my forest,
except
for the fuzzy-headed possum,
nine babies
in a great arc
looped over her gnarly gray back.
I saw her last night
eating the dog’s food
on the back porch
from a silver dish
that gleamed in the light
of a heavy-hung
Strawberry
Moon.

© Copyright 2017 chickpea a.k.a. Patricia Syner (chickpea at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.

Writing.Com, its affiliates and syndicates have been granted non-exclusive rights to display this work.