The ground had almost dried by then, but the accumulated leaves along the fence were still wet and gave off the earthy scent of their decay. The mockingbird perched atop the fence for a while and sang. Later there were brief showers, but only for a moment or two at a time. Clouds drifted, allowing periods of bright sun not much longer than the showers.
So I stayed here all day. The clouds have stayed too, through nightfall and moonrise, and now drift across the nearly-full moon, sometimes fading it to a pale disc, sometimes completely occluding it, sometimes clearing a path for its brightness, but always carrying some of its light in their dense or gauzy shapes. It has grown not winter but spring cold again, and I stay outside to watch the sky's light show as long as I can.
The breezes are stirring the new leaves on nearby trees, which rustle faintly, then fall still until the next breeze makes them shiver with me again. Late traffic passes along the freeway now and then, but I can imagine the quiet of the distant and lost pine woods. I wonder if the frogs, welcoming the fresh water the rain brought, are singing on the ridge tonight?
by Joy Harjo
I know when the sun is in China
because the night shining other-light
crawls into my bed. She is moon.
Her eyes slit and yellow she is the last
one out of a dingy bar in Albuquerque –
Fourth Street, or from similar avenues
in Hong Kong. Where someone else has also
awakened, the night thrown back and asked,
"Where is the moon, my lover?"
And from here I always answer in my dreaming,
"the last time I saw her was in the arms
of another sky."