Spring Nocturne
by BJ Buckley

As if the clouds were soft fingers
plucking a bright splinter
from the moon's sore eye

and the rain, not tears, not wet kisses—
perpetual leaky faucet
of the sky

and the tiny owl's one high note
clear and ringing from a broken pine
again, again, again, little clock
chiming the infinite hour

coyote's staccato yip and bark
the deer, when they hear it—
caesura—
stone still,
song of new willow
sweet on their tongues

percussive rustlings
in the winter-burnt grass
voles in woven tunnels
a squirrel who can't sleep

who can't remember
where the last unbroken cone is buried: pocket
of leaf mold, cold clef
of remnant snow
 

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