Tonight is the rising of the Crow Moon,
the full moon, the Supermoon, 
when the cawing of the crows signals
the end of winter, end of skeleton trees,
children with fevers, streaks of late snow
on the bricks, first crack in the frozen lake.

Crust Moon, Sap Moon, Sugar Moon,
Worm Moon, Wow! Moon. Moon
in all its windblown wildness, its long distance
somewhere, open as a marigold 
in a skull's eye socket hung by a shoelace
above the chiseled hills.

And we stand below it, don't we, young
as we'll ever be, no matter how tough
our hearts, thick with scars, no matter
how nervous we are on the earth's
crumbling front porch, nothing
but a few keys in a pocket?

We stand there, looking up, wondering
which time it was when we saw this moon
before, wondering, if ever, we might
see it again, crows in the black trees
preening their wings, slicking them back
like teenagers in a '50s movie, sleek
in their leather jackets, each one
a feathered rebel without a cause.