by Molly Fisk<\/strong><\/p>\n Early December, dusk, and the sky American Life in Poetry: Column 300<\/strong> – by Ted Kooser, U.S. Poet Laureate, 2004-2006<\/em><\/p>\n This is our 300th column, and we thank you for continuing to support us. I realized a while back that there have been over 850 moons that have gone through their phases since I arrived on the earth, and I haven\u2019t taken the time to look at nearly enough of them. Here Molly Fisk, a California poet, gives us one of those many moons that you and I may have failed to observe.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" Hunter’s Moon by Molly Fisk Early December, dusk, and the sky slips down the rungs of its blue ladder into indigo. A late-quarter moon hangs in the air above the ridge like a broken plate and shines on us all, on the new deputy almost asleep in his four-by-four, lulled by the crackling song of […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_genesis_hide_title":false,"_genesis_hide_breadcrumbs":false,"_genesis_hide_singular_image":false,"_genesis_hide_footer_widgets":false,"_genesis_custom_body_class":"","_genesis_custom_post_class":"","_genesis_layout":"","footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-5948","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","category-uncategorized","entry"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/idealpoetry.com\/rwc\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/5948","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/idealpoetry.com\/rwc\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/idealpoetry.com\/rwc\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/idealpoetry.com\/rwc\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/idealpoetry.com\/rwc\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=5948"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/idealpoetry.com\/rwc\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/5948\/revisions"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/idealpoetry.com\/rwc\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=5948"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/idealpoetry.com\/rwc\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=5948"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/idealpoetry.com\/rwc\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=5948"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
\nslips down the rungs of its blue ladder
\ninto indigo. A late-quarter moon hangs
\nin the air above the ridge like a broken plate
\nand shines on us all, on the new deputy
\nalmost asleep in his four-by-four,
\nlulled by the crackling song of the dispatcher,
\non the bartender, slowly wiping a glass
\nand racking it, one eye checking the game.
\nIt shines down on the fox\u2019s red and grey life,
\nas he stills, a shadow beside someone\u2019s gate,
\nlistening to winter. Its pale gaze caresses
\nthe lovers, curled together under a quilt,
\ndreaming alone, and shines on the scattered
\nashes of terrible fires, on the owl\u2019s black flight,
\non the whelks, on the murmuring kelp,
\non the whale that washed up six weeks ago
\nat the base of the dunes, and it shines
\non the backhoe that buried her.<\/p>\n