Rick Campbell

 

Rick Campbell is a poet and essayist living on Alligator Point, Florida. His latest collection of poems is Gunshot, Peacock, Dog. (Madville Publishing) He’s published five other poetry books as well as poems and essays in numerous journals including The Georgia Review, Fourth River, Kestrel, and New Madrid. He’s won a Pushcart Prize and a NEA Fellowship in Poetry. He teaches in the Sierra Nevada College MFA Program.

Morning in the Eastern Sky

 

It’s hard to remain ignorant these days.

The full moon drew my eye when we turned

for home, two stars hung above the State Park fence.

 

All I know is the morning moon is bright still.

That last night it was eclipsed. But

last night was cold and I did not walk

 

my dog.  This still dark morning

my phone app draws lines in a virtual sky

I read that it’s Venus with Jupiter below. 

 

My tea kettle whistles me into the kitchen.

Super Blood Moon. Wolf Moon, Indians

said, because winter wolves howled

 

from dark hills to stars above.  We have

only the rumor of a wolf here, rumor

of a panther too. These pine hummocks

 

are home to coyote and bears; home

to whatever moon returns

year by year, season by season.