Up on the hill, the moon
is always large, but last night’s
once in a hundred and fifty years
blue blood moon – eclipse
people latch personal chronologies to,
make their essential myths –
was missed by me out of exhaustion.
The house bathed, as were the roos
and the owl heard early this morning
going out to start over. Us. It.
And then, also this morning,
a female red-capped robin
flew into my hair – white wisps
of moon-residue, the disturbance
or excitement of an aftermath
the part allotted me.
Image: Paul Flannery / flickr
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