Harvest Moon

In midnight’s dampening chill,
hawkweed and lupine straighten,
fooled into believing there
is warmth to be found overhead.

On a night this brightly lit,
one can almost hear berries ripen
as September’s abundance
prepares to fuel October’s migration.

Just as confused as me,
both of us awakened by the glow,
I listen to an early bird
heralding dawn’s spurious arrival.

Like some reveling monk
drunk on summer’s extravagance,
flushed and exuberant,
a crimson moon exudes pure silver.

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