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.