Nocturne
The mountains hold their purple
tightly to themselves.
The sky is smudged by a finger
dipped in pink.
Under herons’ wings
a shifting blue swoops in.
The artists can’t keep up with its names:
cobalt, cerulean, turquoise, cyan.
While they talk, the bay keeps bluing
and re-bluing, the moon widening
into its whiteness
like a growling mouth.
A million-year-old croak
lines the sky of the heron’s flight.
We watch the blues blacken
and the pinks dissipate
like gowns dragged across the sky.
We flick on our flashlights,
step onto the path,
poised for black bears and snakes,
too late to settle on the color’s proper name,
folded as it is into the forest’s throat.
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