AFTER THE SUN HAS GONE DOWN three bright things: the rising moon the fire where I sit the nearby kitchen lights at the back of my house the burning sticks draw into themselves the moon keeps steady on its path my house sits contented sharing the night with the darkened woods a clamor erupts the voices of geese all talking at once are they angry? are they afraid? do they call to each other to strengthen the flock? no matter I can hear them pass east grumbling and shouting somewhere in the air above me and below the moon the sound of them passing through the buzz and shush of the night is startling as a point of light appearing suddenly in the depth of sky and racing back into it again so: four bright things