Night sky

				I walk to the end of the field,
				far from the streetlight
				just so I can look
				up into the night sky.

				Alone, in the hay field,
				near an ancient campsite,
				I listen to the singing brook
				without blinking an eye.

				The new moon hangs low
				in the east. Stars are tattoos.
				Black is endless
				and beautiful.

				I imagine you in the moon’s glow.
				Your eyes, bright as stars, muse
				me toward words. Windless,
				the night dews fescue, jonquil,

				and me.