call it hunter’s moon, drying grass moon,

call it travelers’ moon, it is still moon

of skies that have known names since

humans first named and named, facing

the fears of early wanderings into all the

new places that would be harbor and 

shelter for humankind, should humans


in these migrations of our time we are

surely disturbed by search for foods, 

for waters that are clean for endless

thirsts, for the restlessness of the 

dry grasses and the powers that be

that wink on and off like shooting 


we are so vulnerable, as the days do

grow so much shorter, and the nights

are long and cold. the fires give. the 

fires taketh away. we huddle in one

cover of community, each searching: 

will the deer give herself to my arrow?

will the drying grasses be kind to my

animals? will our journeys be fulfilling?

the moon waits its October, not with

out benignity. still, though, very much

quiet, in its orbits around our selves, 

with or without us, indifferent...