Predatory Moth

It ventured out at dusk
Moving seamlessly
from view to vantage
One might catch a glimpse
Likely to dismiss it
for a trick of light
A blur of pastel, ethereal,
illuminated by the headlights
Like some giant predatory moth,
all enshrouded in subtlety,
dancing in the lantern's light
This night it met its end
Struck by a curved pane of glass
The hollow sound
of the last, terminal collision
The offender was moving faster,
than nature meant for it to avoid
Then two might find it
by the yellow-lined wayside
Take its weightless, mighty wings,
and a velvet, taloned foot
Try to make some thing from it
Stimulate a recollection
of the ghostly beauty,
which only its movement
could ever inspire

Well said.

"This earth, she’s a snake. She’s being pierced with arrows, curled into a ball, biting her own tail from the pain, and now rising up in anguish, her back rippling and knocking askew settlements nestled into her corded muscles. Her coils buck up, and she’s thrashing, drooling and panting, tears and blood streaming out in great gouts and overflowing the banks. How long until she shakes us off for good?" - Anjeliska

Just remembered this...

We were in the car, just approaching the house - about to part ways for who knows how long. He looked over at me, and said, "Roy, whatever you decide to do, become an expert at it and you're bound to succeed." I've never forgotten that. I don't know why it left such an impression; seems pretty obvious. But it's stuck with me, and not much else he's said has done the same.

Craftsman

The son liked to look over,
and observe the movements
of his father
Behind every one,
so effortless, a purpose
Calloused hands gliding
from tool to worn tool,
torch to file to mandrel,
without so much as a glance
Occasionally muttering
to himself or no one
Possibly unaware,
but his lips moved,
and sometimes he whistled
along with the tunes
He had built his life
as a precisionist,
a master craftsman
The son hoped
that someday far off
he could do anything
with such skill

Saviors

Animals rarely recognize their saviors. They'd just as soon maim them, as thank them. He thought about that for a while, and concluded people were no different.

Trespassing

Often, he walked out
on his breaks from work
Towards those iron tracks
long dormant now
He'd step over each one
slowly, calculated
Then lightly duck under
the torn chain-link fence
After that, trespassing,
gravel would grind
against the concrete
beneath his feet
He knew that sound
Anticipated it every time
Friction, footsteps
The meadow was next
No more than weeds, really
Thistles, licorice, dandelions,
all leaning with the grass
Always one hand down
at his side, fingers outstretched,
grazing against the meadow
The thistles stinging
but not enough to deter
There was some concrete too,
piled at a pleasant angle
A broken foundation
He liked to sit there,
the sun at his back,
and bask as the lizards do
Something about that warmth
thawed the day's anxiety
The depot wasn't far
now crumbling and wholly ignored,
but still handsome
with those old, worn bricks
Sometimes, that routine
was the highest point
of his weekday
He was rather content
with that notion

Alone

I drove out alone
First time I'd done that
New thoughts the whole way
I saw something
on the gravel shoulder
Glistening golden scales
So, naturally,
I veered over
left my car on the side
and went back on foot
for a closer look
Too late, though,
The serpent laid lifeless
I should've taken that
for an omen
Turned right around
and gone home then
But I didn't know
to pay attention

When I got there,
I wandered by myself
in search of acquaintances
pretending to have purpose
Seeing many, but none
too approachable
So I roamed
from place to place
Full room to full room
and finding no one
that cared to greet me
And my once high spirits
had dampened, saturated,
and sunk into my stomach
Three hours and nothing
I couldn't stay anymore
Had to leave it all behind
and drove home alone
before the show was over
The same way I came

It's so funny too
I always had the notion
that being alone is
when you're someplace
and you don't know anybody
or there's nobody there
But, no, that's not it
Being alone is when
you're in a full house
of familiar faces
and no one says a word