Across a planet lit only by the yellow moon and distant farms, I envy you your wordless pallette, with colors less nuanced than language. Tonight I am one half of a cracked photo plate; you are engraved in the sky beside me. As the daffodil moon rises across the lake, the whole sky collects its light. I stand in a symphony of bullfrog songs, some like lucky dice clicking, some like coughing cats. An owl beyond the pond startles a raccoon into the road. I stand alone. How would you capture this summer sky? A firefly hangs blinking beside me in the hole where you should be, his slow light the glow of your cigarette before you answer. You are the generosity of the wide horizon. I am etched on a half plate in silver against the black prairie night, without a scratch to pass for a star.
19 June, 2003