Language

At sunset the marsh

speaks a language few hear.

Tonight no river otter ripples

the creek's brackish waters

no fish jumps

not even a marsh hen

fusses from her grassy rooms

but the cold full moon

curls itself on top of the barren pine

like a lemon lollipop

and deep crimson stripes

unfurl in the sky like a flag

like a wide light in the middle of a poem

where nothing speaks

but everything shines.

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