In the Kingdom of the Ditch

Perigee

84 Perigee A cold end to January and the moon is as close to us as it’s going to get: river sluggish where ice forms at the edges of exposed rock. Not far from here a friend found the first shed of the season. I imagine the buck in the floodplain, aimless with only one antler. All things move from balance to imbalance, and for the past three hours two horned owls have been piping a song that seems heavier on one side. Last week I found pellets in a circle as broad as a pie pan. (Does the moon’s light cast from this distance make it easier for these birds to hunt?) Somewhere in the shadowed trees above our house a shrew scurries in and out of the hollowed body of a maple, every few feet stopping to look for the owl’s shadow. Frost rings the window as I listen to night’s traffic: coyote on the hill above the dam, these owls who never seem to tire, the timid deer scuffing at the base of a red oak in search of acorns. What can we really know? Illumination is a beautiful word, made even more lovely by this moonlight on our bed, outlining the curve of your back, your strong legs curled beneath the white blanket. ...