All the ways we are tethered to the earth, I trust them all;
I trust none of them. Every year, I am slower journeying

the compound. Weathered walls warp and bow, my track
first grass, then dirt, then mud. I used to think over

meant beyond. Now I think it means before crossed with open.
I got up early to see the blood moon, and there were only

clouds, the wind shaking the few remaining leaves
like little fists at the sky. Something is missing. Something

is coming. I spread my fingers wide so whatever arrives
will flow through. I think of the riverside in Columbus, Indiana

overly green, the sky wide and flat like a tin roof, Silver Sneaker
trail threading through town. Every year I am slower.

Even now, something is on its way. Even now, mud and blood
and cloaked moon. Even now, buildings startling and silent.

Ruth Dickey

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