sometimes, the sky in golden
by travis cebula

appropriate, a chill wind should be
the one to draw first leaves from high cradles
in this clipped and dappled enclave of
meticulous comfort and knee-high fences

whisper it’s the season of the hard moon
hung two fingers above the skyline,
wearily I watch the rock mesa rise to it

some say harvest moon, which sounds
soft, but it cracks our pond–shatters
into our kitchen in the hours before dawn
the only thing that ever made the dog growl

whether out of rage, domesticity, or innocent fear
on this morning my exit makes wood ducks warble
as the door clacks shut behind me

they are soft golden still, young round leaves,
and have not yet begun to snap
and scuttle until raked into black stacks

somewhere beyond these yards and glistening spider webs I see
the flat blue face finally sink as a single coyote howls