The moon slips above the horizon,
copper-plated tray fired in sun, hammered hand over hand
into its familiar texture. Tribal bands of the Great Lakes
thanked the August full moon for its gift
of fish lifted with nets and smoked in summer camps.
At night the waters gleamed as filigreed breast plates
guarding the vitals of the land,
and the light carved paths into the dense forests, whose
fern-covered floors glistened wherever it touched. No wonder
they believed in magic, and their shaman named
the moon in praise.
But the magic wavers, just when we thought
we could save the world.
We are parched for lack of peace, a thirst
dense with regret and dearth of artistry.
Some anonymous journalist is the new shaman,
who has christened this moon
for a wished-for trait of an uneasy world. The “Super Moon” casts
shadows in every meadow from here to Monongahela,
erases the lights of Altair and Vega.
Let us hold tightly to one another,
follow the sweet Sturgeon Moon to the last known
horizon, the alpha and omega,
the next Bethlehem or Mecca.