It is the dark of the moon. <br />Late at night, the end of summer, <br />The autumn constellations <br />Glow in the arid heaven. <br />The air smells of cattle, hay, <br />And dust. In the old orchard <br />The pears are ripe. The trees <br />Have sprouted from old rootstocks <br />And the fruit is inedible. <br />As I pass them I hear something <br />Rustling and grunting and turn <br />My light into the branches. <br />Two raccoons with acrid pear <br />Juice and saliva drooling <br />From their mouths stare back at me, <br />Their eyes deep sponges of light. <br />They know me and do not run <br />Away. Coming up the road <br />Through the black oak shadows, I <br />See ahead of me, glinting <br />Everywhere from the dusty <br />Gravel, tiny points of cold <br />Blue light, like the sparkle of <br />Iron snow. I suspect what it is, <br />And kneel to see. Under each <br />Pebble and oak leaf is a <br />Spider, her eyes shining at <br />Me with my reflected light <br />Across immeasurable distance.<br /><br />Kenneth Rexroth<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/doubled-mirrors/
