I step into the darkness,
feed bucket in hand.

A warming has come in the night,
bringing a rising of thin-wisped clouds
that lightly shroud a setting moon.

Its bright halo
silhouettes the long limber limbs
of the locust tree,
swaying softly in the glow.

A darker form banks below the moon,
dull slate of coming cold.

Overhead, stars set light
to the winter sky,
high above satin curls
of scattered seams of clouds
as I walk beneath the birches,
headed toward the barn.

South of east,
the least bit of pink
etches long fingers
stretching above the ridge.

In the shadows of the shed,
I feed the gelding,
fill the water trough.

In no more time than this,
the shroud has tightened around the moon,
leaving nothing more than its core of light.

I walk back towards the house,
prophecy of north breeze against my face,
wondering how can I call this “duty”
in the beauty of this place?

H. Arnett
1/16/14