Moon bird does think only of the moon

As she side-steps westward,
Never turning away from
her namesake, her adoration.

Not once blinking her glossy black eyes.
The moon, pale as a skull,
sits reflected on each surface
otherwise as deep and dark as the wild night.

Tonight,
no cool light appears to give me reference
or to cast its peculiar shade on this scene–
the crooked fence,
the scattered leaves,
and myself,
barefoot on the dewy grass.

I also consider
my lover, the late hour,
and mother-morning, always-pending.
The moon bird, however–
does think only of the moon.