A drift of torn cloud, daylight that’s open and clear. The grackles wheeze and groan like old retired gamblers as they wander and gather. A sleeping rhythm in the day, and then sometimes the wind comes through and makes them lift and fall, the crowds of leaves that were motionless and silent until now. In the evening, the notes of a bird, just one, calling to a big slow-moving moon. September evening going on and changing into deepest night. The lights along the streets are motionless and steady, the insects hiding in the grass pursue their copulation song relentlessly, a thin white moon is glowing now in its silence and a long, dismasted cloud is drifting slowly by. Soon the trees that make these heavy stirring shapes, that sigh as they gather up and soften and transpose the dark will strip themselves (like those old men who leave their wives and families to wander naked on the roads) and then their brittle cast off leaves will scratch and crawl along the roads to give the only sound of winter nights and then the wind and the other moon will have come into their own
Copyright © Robert Gregory 2005. From The Beautiful City of Weeds. Used with permission of Hanging Loose Press.