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river rat: stare or not, but look
When the moon crests the ridge
look into its face; study the halo and the scars.
Stare this time, don’t flinch, pay attention, be here, now.
Brush a bug from your arm, but do not avert your lazy gaze.
Light falls cold at this distance,
without grace, malice, or smell—it falls is all.
Don’t look and you’ll miss it or see only
moon shadow and that’s not moon light, it’s the opposite, moon dark.
Ancestors watched the same light, practically.
In the big picture, the fuzzy one that hangs on our walls unframed, unfinished,
your light, their light—there’s no difference.
It wanders arcs, bending time and planets like nervous reeds over your thumb.
Dry grasses rustle and chafe.
They never look away even when it hurts.
Under water, turning black, softening — cattails stare
while you tie knots, worry leaves, carry paper in the dark.
At water’s edge you fall in, think what to do.
Look down, into shadow, into murk?
Stare and pray to never look away?
Focus on silhouettes and you’ll run out of bubbles.
