Three Quarters
The moon
through the skylight,
three a.m.,
luminous cup
filled with mist.
Crickets and their kin scream,
“wait, wait, wait”
in the chill of foggy night.
Leaves answer, shuddering
in the breeze,
“the hour is near to make our bed.”
The moon passes overhead
shadows cast in brittle grass
whose heads bend low,
empty of their seeds.