Three Days with the Long Moon

Adrian Koesters

That field nag, old-penny
swayback. Low hawk, two
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.