The sky is dark today
darker than last night’s moon shadows.
We admired the Beaver’s Moon
embraced by the branches of the tall pine
as we sat in red chairs round the fire
speaking of policies, politics and pie.
I wondered if the beavers would come to claim it,
gnawing at the pine to pull it down
I imagine the rumble as the moon and tree
hit the forrest floor a sound
to crawl up my feet, vibrate my spine
like the echo of thunder rolling down the mountain.
For minutes echoing through the valley
only muted by Crocket’s warning bark.
The rain strikes the roof like the arrows of Agincourt
I hide in the bathroom with it’s perpetual cobalt
a spring sky promising better days ahead.
Crocket pads in on leonine feet as I cower
his yellow eyes looking wild not with fear,
but rather the wisdom and pity of Koko
living among us, learning our language,
teaching us how to love and to be.