Fall Turns Black and White

Trout breathe pearls in the night’s black creek.
The moon is a moth on the waves.

The snow that fell to melt sprouts ice,
And here and there a white patch stays.

The oak twigs click and shine with lights
That can’t be traced back to a source.

Mule deer move herds of shades on shades
Through the fields that fenced the white horse.

It’s still fall in the sky. The dawns
Still drift south. The trout will sink soon

As the snows pile. The deer will nest
Best they can. No moths then. Just moon.