Too Much, Too Few, Too Much

It’s a hill with tour guides, now,
Cloaked in ash haze and rose clouds.

In small hours, the moths shoot white
As stars through the glob of light

Thrown by one car on the road
Past the park gates. The bright globe

Crawls up the slope to a flat
Topped in pines. The bugs and bats

Flash in and out of the sphere
That’s then switched off. It’s not clear

Up this high how bad it is.
The haze could be a low mist,

And the band of stars looks sharp
Once the lights are down. Dawn starts

With a long, slow fade to gold.
The stars look less and less bold.

A swarm of small but loud wrens
Pulse from pine to pine again.

You can see the haze turn brown,
Sky turn rose. Here comes the town.