A sturgeon moon is rising through wispy cloud,
making the waters of the bay a rippling,
molten orange. Out of sight, above the cliffs,
on pastureland bordered by oakwoods, a pair
of tawny owls is hunting amongst
the sleeping sheep, the owls’ long calls
trilling through the dark. A heron, with its
harsh cry, is crossing the moon’s fervid wake.
A small boat chugs into the bay, the searchlight
at its bow scoping the jutting rocks
the spring tide is covering. There is a sudden,
mechanical splutter, a muffled oath,
silence, the waves’ soft fall – then the tinkering
of metal. Meanwhile, the moon and the earth
have turned. Somewhere, like silvery submarines,
atlantic sturgeon lurk. On the far headland
is the white tower of a ruined windmill.
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By David Selzer
