Cat’s eye moon
When the year turns dark, she
purrs over the horizon. Above
Bull Hill Road she spies us, digging
our claws into the couch of
time. She dogs us, our flea collars
tight, our dreams spayed, our rabies
shot. Chasing Winter’s mice into the
cupboards of November, she keeps
us guessing: where’s her other eye?
Her swishing tail is the Northern Lights,
and this whole planet’s nothing but a
ball of yarn. Too bad we’ve lost the
can opener.