It’s night again. Above the dreaming hill
by Leo Yankevich
stars are so close your finger reaches them.
You’ve downed your pint of beer, have had your fill
of darts and cards, and piss beneath a stem
of cherry blossom. Luna’s in your eyes
and speaks a language only you can hear,
a language of hermetic grunts and sighs.
You know a beast is stalking, and a deer
is running for its life a breath away.
You are a bit of both, you think, with feet
now moving toward the shanty in the dale
like hooves of an uneasy woodland stray,
or paws of a wolf that trails a distant bleat
until its muzzle finds your bushy tail.