The moon told me
that in the early morning
before dawn
pushes her off,
she watches
as the city slows
to a few flickering neon signs
and stray cars rushing home.
She listens
to herself breath
and with each exhale
she hears the squeak
of an abandoned shopping cart.
The moon says
she misses the country
where the bat sing
to her every night,
and she watches the fox
weave in and out of the tall grass.
She sees a lost strangers
in the city and each one
trying to find a warm place
to sleep.
The moon whispers to me
how she remembers
dreaming
and being free,
but she settles on the concrete
and tries to draw a forest
with the silhouettes
in the windows.
Poetic Trials 