Day 40 —

Late August. The moon is
the shape of a finger nail
over the lake beyond the lake.
The dog flies into the brush
for a show. She bounds
in fields of hay as
the sky’s stroke grounds us.
My skin is the color
of terra cotta, baked.
The air is warm,
grassy and alive.
And the big dipper hangs
like a pitcher, pouring
the stars
onto my head.

These are good days,
these are good days,
these are the good days.

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