After Ansel Adams’ “Moonrise Over Hernandez, New Mexico 1941″
Stood by the edge of the mountain, the day coming fully
to crows. Stood and the lighted gap offered a moment
of brightest compassion. Before wither, I could intercept
the warm air of distance, knew I would render it drenched
in rigorous grays. I stood in the lack and metered
to make it abundant. Clocking each crescent of moon
and its upward direction. All eye level was surface. The stars
were precise in beginning. Long was the view, though
short its duration. Cloaked at the tripod, I was entrusted
to claim province. Stood in these details: a field, a church,
desert crust, barn door. A moon, ascending, partly
undressed in devotion. My hands again moved a slide
to the holder. Saturated blue slumped over, taking its pitch,
and for a moment, peeling back, in portals of time.