by Taylor Graham
On this ridgetop, spires of pines
reach toward the heavens. Evening
darkens, the tip of each ponderosa
pointing to a star.
What I can see: Pinkish glare
of a neighbor’s security light; urban
sky-glow from a city 30 miles away.
Trespass of light.
It robs me of the Milky Way,
Polaris my guide, a heaven’s worth
of imaginings, and this night’s
shooting stars.
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