I remind myself when I reach the pond at sunset
how far water reveals itself by night,
as the moon shimmering across the surface,
tightens into a pyramid of light
that points to me,
that points me out indeed
and, in the same gesture,
also burns the crests of small waves
with flames I thought at first were fireflies.
We do not habitually live our lives in full;
we do not fill ourselves sufficiently with blood.
Even so, as they creep close and closer still to me
I see those flames increase,
so many broken fragments of the moon
they seem more intense than the moon itself,
until their brightness makes me turn away,
and wish for company to
share my task of looking,
and the light complete.
—From Granta 128, American Wild.