A Last Moth of August
       

With a wing cocked towards a lit lamp,
            he can change the night's mood.
                      Change its course, too. Maestro,
do you never tire, as I do,
            of trash-talking to the hands that flutter
                      after you? Or sassing
this rolled-up newspaper that eons ago
            our progenitors perused
                      in the sweet half-light.

Apparently it's already September.
          I guess that makes me
your bad news. Don't watch. Here's
          my hand in descent.
How gently          your wingbeats
    enter me          as I hover,      briefly,
tasting the delicate light,      trembling
    as blackbirds          bullet by.

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Copyright © 2013 Nance Van Winckel All rights reserved
from Pacific Walkers
University of Washington Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission