In the waning light of dusk,
a three-quarter moon
seeps through clouds
the color of rust and bruises,
edges tinged in the least hint of a sunset
that passed a half-hour earlier.
Still soaked from afternoon rain,
the black locust tree, thornless,
droops slender limbs and small leaves
against the pale stillness
of the western sky,
its stark silhouette graceful and delicate.
Lush as April
on the first Thursday of August,
a blend of perennial rye and bluegrass
passes into the darkness
shaded beneath the trees
on the eastern side of the slope
that leads to the neighbor’s place.
There is a peace
in the passing of the storm
and even a hard rain
leaves some gain in the ground.
Already, the tomato plants
have started to straighten
from the pounding of wind and water.
the moon gleams
from a break in the clouds
and I see clearly
the path from the barn to the house.