Graduating to Wet Stones

Andalusian Moon The sun has long since melted into the level horizon and it is time I leave behind this darkened path¾ but where is my moon to lead me home in circular song? That slanted crescent like the full arching neck of the Andalusian mare who sang over cobbled stone the night you taught me to ride like a Spaniard? And later in a field mantled with sedge, you taught me the harmony of silver skin singing against skin: An aria undressed of lyrics illuminating each dim hollow. When with you gather me up again, sing silver back into these unlit hollows? Somewhere in a nearby field a white mare shifts like a new moon.

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