by Robin Cravey

It’s full dark, cooling toward a light freeze,

and there’s a cold breeze blowing.

The trees are sighing to each other

A moth flutters to rest near my journal.

My focus is a little slab of light

on the table in front of me.

The black nib of the pen—

my hands—

move against the white pages.

Around that stand the ink bottle,

the lamp, water, whiskey, cookies.

On a wider arc lie

cell phone, radio, gloves, daypack.

Then, the edges of the table

mark the edge of light.

Beyond is darkness stretching away.

A stone’s throw away a campfire flickers.

Above, dark branches clutch at a less dark sky.

One by one moths drop out of the darkness

to visit my lamp.

They fall to the table and are still.

They were mistaken to brave the cold

for this cold light.  But,

if tonight’s freeze is to be their last night,

then maybe they’re right to spend

these moments in the light.

The wind is rising.

I just lit my camp heater.

I put it beneath the table near my knees

and stay conscious of it.

It’s easy to reach down to warm my hands.

I have to be careful of the moths

littering the table.

Because they’re still, it’s easy to ignore them.

But if I brush one, it feebly lifts its wings for a moment,

or even flutters for a second or two.