human beasts gather beneath
the moon, in the thick of woods,
beside gurgling waters. We look up
to the first guiding light, listen
to the swell of sound beyond
our breath, the chorus
of whispering beetles, the sips
of air in bursting creek bubbles,
the snap of branches, the tambourine
of shaking leaves. The moon
sits silent, distant, draws back
its slivers of light. Outside
the woods, commerce crashes
on. Trains, trucks, assemblies
trundle over jungles and plains. Giants
of progress, like those that made the South
howl, sing that meanwhile train whistle,
that mournful lullaby about progress—
plowing the earth itself down. The moon
we love for her returning face, turns
again, sheds no tear. We look up
for some answer
to our own greedy destruction.
The moon and sun do not look
down. They hurl through space
in pattern, perpetual until redirected
by some other law
of nature. Nature who strives 
for balance. We little beasts
gathered beneath them
look up, as if any place is steady.