The moon sliver seen
through clouds becomes,
across a photographic plate,
a smudge of light we call
the Pleiades.
We always look outward,
search and explain, then
look back to see again:
exhausted from the hunt,
the summer sun across fields,
the blood and the dusky return,
a Celt who listens, through smoke
clouding the wan moon,
to the whispers of
the shaman’s chant.
1990
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