by Don Thompson WaningThe crescent moon flat on its back
Bleeds out, low in the West
With no stars nearby—witnesses
Who didn’t want to get involved.
IllusionNo wind, but sparrows like leaves
Scatter as if blown away,
Undoing a brief illusion.
The bare tree is bare again.
RemorseResidual glow on a moonless night
Must be delusion—or remorse:
The dark earth itself longing for
The light it used to have. About the Author:Don Thompson has been writing about the San Joaquin Valley for over fifty years, including a dozen or so books and chapbooks. For more info and links to publishers, visit his website at http://www.don-e-thompson.com.