Against the stars
the nearby moon
struggles to spread
its reflected light
on this place.
Grosbeaks, yellow stripes
over their eyes that looks
like they’ve been swiped
by an errant paintbrush,
seem to think they can
scavenge among the carpet
of fallen leaves and dying
trees with impunity.
They are not yet aware
how hawks and owls
have perfected their night
vision for opportunities
exactly like these.
The topography of this land,
so flat that people
like to tell tales about how
they could roll quarters
across their front porches,
now seems to make the fields
undulate in an evening breeze.
Out from town, light shimmers
off nails of rotting boards
of abandoned barns
giving them the illusion
of still being useful
and sagging barb wire,
strung across creosoted juniper posts,
wears a pale-light necklace.
But folks who spend
their lives here seem comforted
by a land with no up or down
and the only direction
one can take is flat.
Against the stars,
the nearby moon
plays hide and seek
with the empty tower
of the county airport
where no air controller
is needed tonight,
where arrivals are few,
and the single runway
appears in the moonlight
to go on here forever.
• • •
Richard Luftig’s poems and stories have appeared in numerous literary journals in the United States as well as Canada, The United Kingdom, Australia, Europe, and Asia. His latest book of poems, A Grammar for Snow, has been published by Unsolicited Press.