The western sky’s white but the tiny star’s white’s
Brighter. The bleached day’s bones left for parts west.
On the sky’s other side the hunter’s moon uncrouches
and coughs. It shines off every tin roof of every hundred
Year old house but does not compare to the silent
Ocean of mid-day’s leaf shadows on the back yard’s
Softly swaying grass I saw earlier, so perfect
I pulled a chair off the porch and sat in the midst
Of its going-nowhere motion until I felt the day’s
Balance point precisely: all things moving, everything still.