Moonrise
The moon is rising, almost full,
on the lightning-struck field.
Beyond the hills, the high tide’s pull
opens what’s sunk and sealed.
All dark is silvered in these hours:
burnt stumps, beleaguered oaks
moon-plated into elfin towers
that daylight hides as hoax.
Shy, raccoons hear tongues of rain
calling them from the creek—
all gargoyle masks washed fair again
as night begins to speak.