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