At the River

for my mother 1929-2020

Already the moon pales, half-cast above fields, shifting, done.

The darkness that comes speaks, weaves half-words

of the timorous blown cottonwoods, conducts quiet bird sound,

the long sad cry of wind,

Of suburban dogs, of geese tilting toward silver water.

I stand half in it, in the half-light of barns,

Of remembered porches, half-voices of my mother and father,

speaking to me still