Moon Fight

On a Sunday evening, dark clouds glide

noiselessly like oil spilling, darkening

a sky bright with the moon, a halo

around her head. She spends ten minutes

fighting the cunning cloud, trying to see

through the thickening spill, winking in<

the gaps in blackness, holding her breath

when the watery soot smothers her;

slowly she shrinks. I look up. She is gone.

But then a tiny blink. She remains there.

A night later and she is back, fully

rounded, bold with pride and the sun’s

light; she cuts the fast white clouds around

her and creates a giddy illusion of her

speedy rising up into the sky. She is

transcending, she owns the night.