–Kenneth RexrothIt is the dark of the moon.Late at night, the end of summer,The autumn constellationsGlow in the arid heaven.The air smells of cattle, hay,And dust. In the old orchardThe pears are ripe. The treesHave sprouted from old rootstocksAnd the fruit is inedible.As I pass them I hear somethingRustling and grunting and turnMy light into the branches.Two raccoons with acrid pearJuice and saliva droolingFrom their mouths stare back at me,Their eyes deep sponges of light.They know me and do not runAway. Coming up the roadThrough the black oak shadows, ISee ahead of me, glintingEverywhere from the dustyGravel, tiny points of coldBlue light, like the sparkle ofIron snow. I suspect what it is,And kneel to see. Under eachPebble and oak leaf is aSpider, her eyes shining atMe with my reflected lightAcross immeasurable distance.