Lunar

The moon is a sharp sliver

Of rust bucket orange

Sitting there

So low on the horizon

That if it were any more humid out

That sliver of a moon

Might just spill forth like a vessel

Or a teapot

And burnt orange lunar lava

Would flow

Like melted sugar

Bubbling

Slowly

Over the treetops

On the mountains

That I see in the distance.

This waxing crescent moon is magnificent and ghostly

And portrays itself much larger

Than normal

As if being viewed through a heavy reading glass.

It is looming above

Like a giant moth

But instead of hovering

Around the lunar light

I turn

For but a moment

And the slice of blood orange

Is gone

Dissappearing below

The treeline

Without warning

Like a mysterious lover

On the canal path

That exits

Silently

To the first sound

Of footsteps.