Score

Bits of dust make streaks of light
That slice the slow wheel of stars
Through a high sky. Moths and bats
Shoot past one car’s cones of light
Down the bare road, and moon shines
On the side of the white cliff.
It’s the dark draws out these lights.

One moon, one car, a few stars,
Two star streaks, three bats, some moths,
One pre-dawn drive up the cliff,
Past inked free-range cows and deer
That lift their ears at the lights—
In a dark world, what’s seen counts,
As if each thing drew a point.