Moonflower

The screech owl is moaning tonight as Mars
Moors over the walnut trees. Its call whittles

Away the dusk and the day’s shavings drift
Between leaves then sink to the grass

And become crickets. This small hilly town
Is full of vultures and most of them sit quietly

On the cell tower on the highest hill here
As below them the volume ramps up.

Above my head the loblolly pines reach out
awkwardly to the night like lonely brothers

missing the sisters they stopped talking to back
when nobody could be trusted. Vultures

Can be trusted to be exactly what they are.
The cell tower they gather on is in a park

Called Reservoir Park, which, being on top
Of a hill, has no reservoir and is the one park

In town which does not flood during heavy rain.
The screech owl doesn’t so much screech

As it makes you want to find it, and not being
Able to find it makes you want to screech.

This small hilly town. A memory from this morning
Of the low sun emerging through the center

Of the moonflower. The loblolly pines shrugging
As if they don’t want what they want. The crickets

Playing late summer’s encore over and over. Unseen
Sources of sound and light like a reservoir

For my unfocused thoughts, like a small flower
So brilliant its edges seem a new kind of call

From a small owl announcing summer’s over.