September New Moon Sonnet

Dear Tribe,

Hail, bright crescent, veiled at last in rain
long needed, longer looked-for, yet not found.
Crickets chorus, as parched and thirsty ground
muddies dusty earth. Every stream, each drain
long concealed in dirt, water now makes plain.
Early twilight owls hoot at sparrow-sound;
a doe leaves footprints on her daily round,
gleaning from windfall and ripening grain.
Hares, under Venus’s come hither eye
wait for dawn with fear and quivering ear.
Maples charge to crimson, beeches with gold;
sunset singes pink a glowering sky.
Hot days recall summer, but winter’s spear
shimmers at night: even starlight feels cold.

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