This is a poem about a full moon

by Joe Cottonwood
 
called a Hunter’s Moon 
I never saw rising because 
I live in a valley covered in fog
among redwood trees.
 
Each night I soak in a hot tub before bed,
each night a different phase of moon
which must rise high scaling mountainside
and then pierce the fog
which keeps the trees alive.
 
The fog turns to silver shafts
hovering among trees
like beams from a celestial projector.
 
This is a poem about a nose 
touching my elbow at the edge of the hot tub,
a black wet nose,
a raccoon cub wide-eyed with life,
handsome fur thick and glossy,
curious, electric, spirit of night.
 
Startled delighted I exclaim There you are!
like an idiot and the cub, scared,
so quick on its feet scampers — gone.
 
This is a poem about the felt, 
sometimes seen, ever there: 
the fog and full moon, 
an elbow, cub nose, 
the damp touch 
of the wild cosmos.