A poem by Mark Edward Askren
It was a fingernail moon that rose
Over the bank of the silent river
Where the boy watched from the gnarled tree.
He was captured by the crescent shape,
Caught by the point of the moon.
The moon glimmered over the darkened river.
The mud-green water was as firm as flesh
Where the boy sat in the mangled tree.
In his hand he held a twisted branch,
Wet with the sap where he broke it.
He struck the water with the branch,
Buried the moon in the mud-green sludge,
But the light reappeared as he pulled out the limb;
The mud fell from the stick in thick drops--
Back into the river, back into the moon.