full moon on the second of January.

eyes that do not turn or close.

it rises over the ferns and the

sheaoaks on the harbour

pencilling in the edges of the woods

like a face without a body

or a body without wings.

we lay in our cabin counting the

preys of a nearby bat

by the speed of its gleeful

echo-location, its rush and

flutter of wings

in the mild rain.

it cannot see us, down here, under the

haul…though i can’t be sure.