Sally Tells of the Harvest Moon

It is a light that transfixes earth's detritus:
dry leaves, thin branches, a plain roof
coruscate, take on elegant curves
as the moon strikes their silhouettes.

How could I have let this slip by unnoticed,
ungrateful, knowing my own shape,
altered now beyond recognition,
stands straighter in the light of the moon?

No use hiding like the mouse
shrinking from the predator owl;
he cannot miss his silver prey.
But as he swoops, bedazzled,

he might startle at bright burning
of such slight substance
and pluck with care a creature
who gives no ground to another's hunger.