The Grain moon of summer moves perceptibly
Through the white birch we did not plant
But showed up as a sapling when our child still suckled
And now drapes over the pond that a young one
Dug when she needed to dig.
Daphnia dance in the shadows of the birch
As unexpected, as unplanned
As every birth of every human
That mouthed the word mama.


We know how it ends, as does
The birch, as does the mosquito
Who drills into my skin to
Provide, blood drier than nectar
(which she prefers), but she does what she must,
As we all do, all beings, all all.


The little boy slaps at her, laughing
Because he got her, amused
By the splash of ruby now on his arm,
“I got one! I got one!”
And the white birch kneels over the pond,
As it does, as it does,
As the moon slides through its branches.

The full moon is approaching. I was reading Seamus Heaney as I saw it peek over the book in the steel gray of dusk.