Old moon rubs cue dust
blue on the church steeple,
lays a shimmering beam
across the flight of a night heron:
silent hunter.

Patient fishing bird poised
in mid-stride
stares unblinking
into a minnow’s eye,
waits, ignores

the sound of trucks in caravan
that rip the night
like glaciers calving,
across the belly
of the bay.

Blue moon on black beak,
ivory streaks of wear.
Fish frozen in terror.
Late snack
by moonlight.