Eleven p.m., late October

Unable to settle down
I get up from my desk,
push open the window
To the dark, impenetrable
But for the amorphous moon,
Its sickle only a hint
Between shreds of cloud.

Caught among spruce and poplar
East wind hums, its ancient voice
Disembodied like the pearl-string
Of coyotes’ shrill notes, more distant
Than morning. 

Across the field 
The only thing tangible tonight:
Faint tractor noise, head lamps
Carving a small cone of comfort
From the vast blackness -
One last effort to gather bales of straw
No less precious in this drought
Than that spun to gold in fairy tales.

 I close the window.
 It smells like snow.

- Susanne von Rennenkampff