Blue Moon River Walk
It is a month with two moons. My son asks if I want to walk
the night-town. At sixteen, he cannot say the words: he feels
the call, the pull of that second moon on his blood. These
abandoned streets, shelled and bleak, only television echoes
tell us we are not truly alone. Lights flicker on and off, wordless.
In two blocks, we hear our river—the unspoken goal. We can
hear the green. Nightwinds and thick weeds reed the rush of too
many streams here combined: zippered, enjoined, Gypsy travelers
smithing their own journey-music. We peer between trees, catching
illusions. Moon licks wave tips like a pianist, a faerie war too fast
to follow. I would stay forever but he moves ahead. Boat-dock
rhythms draw him onto water. He accepts the false safety of wood,
lies down to be mother-rocked and creaked. The trees over us, so
heavy with fireflies, erupt in pixie lights. We are being watched. This
night cannot be happening, but it is: all these star-clusters and comets.