Tonight’s dark moon blacks out the countryside
And veils the miles of taut barbed wire fence.
It envelops Angus steer and hides
The bales of hay beneath its blue-black tents.
The truant moon conceals the points of light
From far-off suns. A driver grips a wheel,
And tires cling to double lines of white.
She inches, purblind, through the black surreal.
Then for an instant, fire turns night to day
As an orange torch streaks through the skies.
The tragic ending of a brilliant play.
Sparks trail the plunging fire as it dies.
A meteor flames out, light years from home,
And ignites the lonesome kindling of her bones.

 
Susan Spear is the managing editor of Think, a journal of formal poetry, book reviews, and criticism housed at Western Colorado State University. She has published poems in Academic Questions, The Lyric, Mezzo Cammin, Raintown Review, and other print and on-line journals. She lives on the eastern plains of Colorado where she enjoys jogging on the dusty trails.