Language
At sunset the marsh
speaks a language few hear.
Tonight no river otter ripples
the creek's brackish waters
no fish jumps
not even a marsh hen
fusses from her grassy rooms
but the cold full moon
curls itself on top of the barren pine
like a lemon lollipop
and deep crimson stripes
unfurl in the sky like a flag
like a wide light in the middle of a poem
where nothing speaks
but everything shines.