The Hunter

Tiny cashew of a crescent moon, sitting duck up in the sky.

And there he came along behind, bow drawn the fullest, belted dagger dangling. 

Ida swept away summer last night, let him out of his cave to run and fight.

To sport across the sky all winter, and dance victory on the barn roof after each and every night.

They say he travels east to find his eyesight, blinded once in someone's anger.

Will he step on that scorpion again tonight or live to hunt another?

Will moon escape to fly again the summer skies, a pirate ship with sails unfurled?

Will we somehow stay warm when the wildwinds whirl?

Ida's broom seems to have tumbled away the misty, smoky morning clouds that overhung us every day all summer. We've seen a star or two sometimes, poking dull, skinny beams through the blanket, but for the most part this year's only summer stars have been fireflies dancing in the garden.

In the clear, cold of the first unofficial, but very real fall morning (O' dark thirty...there was a four involved in there somewhere) as I took the dog out, I saw the first satellite I have ever observed, sailing steadily among the stars. There is normally way too much light pollution and dirty diesel air to see such things from our riverside home.

Before first coffee had time to cool a faint blue glow stained the horizon, palest pink to follow. Orion slunk away to hunt again another morning.

Not ready for this, nope, nope, nope. I am never ready for this.

But there is consolation. #warblermigration.

Common Yellowthroat 
Nondescript but noisy in the shrubbery