Adrian Koesters

That field nag, old-penny swayback. Low hawk, to ducks in train to a quad of geese, in case. Last night, the long moon lay it seemed a tissue of snow, but then dawn told that wasn't so. Late morning, now, the fire, the hearth, eggs sitting for the mute plate and fork, this pen making a thing of them. Two more nights— waterfowl safe and noisy in the dusk, the low rails running flank to the river at midnight—find what they'll make of that river, this moon.