There are spirits
like white foxes on the lawn,
passing through shadows and
becoming birds
who fall
in twirling arcs of
soundless light,
to land
as plastic bags
pierced through by headlights,
fallen angels or
the guardian stars
of wheel wells.
Withdrawn behind the silhouettes
of oaks and aspens
the moon remains
a coward:
setting--hiding--
waiting
for the light to go away.
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