Here on the ridge, a beat between nights,
lull between rains;
the sky is swollen, the pond black.
White moth drops to the black surface
and flits one wing like a tiny sail,
its panic only a flicker on the
Rain comes back, striking tiny circles
across the face of the water, drenching the papery wing
until it lies still.
Day sinks into the pond,
pulling after it the blue hills and black above;
pond swallows until it was never