by Dan Gerber

Natania Darvath’s
Songs of the Auvergne in my minds ear
while the daylight ghost
of a waning quartermoon
drifts just above the reach
of a coastal liveoak
on the high ridge of the canyon
where a single coyote is watching.

Meanwhile some morechallenged being
throttling a biwinged Howland Honey Bee
is pulling serious, lowlevel G’s
in a steep bank against the blue
before climbing,
popping and burbling,
into a hammerhead turn, I believe

and, for a moment, imagine
the pilot’s speedwarped view
of the day down here
where the moon is falling
into the wildness of the oak’s dark hair,
and the coyote,
a few yards down slope now,
still watching.