The moon rises.
The red cubs
In the ferns by the rotten
Stare over a marsh and a
To the farm's white wisp of smoke.
A spark burns, high in heaven.
Deer thread the blossoming
Of the old orchard,
Hop by the well-curb.
The cock
From the tree by the widow's walk;
Two stars in the trees to the west,
Are snared, and an owl's soft
Runs like a breath through the forest.
Here too, though death is hushed, though
Obscures, like night, their wars,
The beings of this world are
By the Strife that moves the stars.
