“Through a rounded aperture I saw appear br Some of the beautiful things that Heaven bears, br Where we came forth, and once more saw the stars.” br —Dante, Inferno br br — br br Summer air hangs heavily br upon the ridges, br one after another to the horizon br br as they become mere suggestions. br Evening light runs the gamut br of hues before giving way to black br br as the earth turns its back on the sun, br at least from this perspective— br black, as only a country night can bring. br br A few stars appear, few can survive br this laden atmosphere, br those that do are the old familiars, br br the summer camp reunion. br Midnight, the moon a day or two br from full, rises, yawns, low to the east, br br colored in non-Crayola tints. br To the west giant Jupiter’s gaseous state br is reduced to a non-twinkling hint. br br Grouchy Ursa, languid Cassie, br the Big O, that devil Scorpio, graceful Miss Cy, br toothless Leo, seven tired Sisters br br are there, behind the veil of moisture, br keeping company with one another. br From this vantage they are nothing more br br than memories, their presence taken on faith. br The coyotes are there as well, br but silent, slumbering, plotting, tending br br coyote pups, sated on hapless mice. br A few birds make the effort, desultory songs, br strains of “A Perfect Day” perhaps. br br Insects, what to they care? Still, br they lack clarity, in fact, this summer night br is defined by ambiguity, ennui, yet— br br rich as crème caramel, and as welcome. br What is missing? A hand to hold, br lips to kiss, a breast to touch? Perhaps. Yes. br br No. This is enough. Still, a man wants company. br Sitting on the porch amid—all of this— br is a lonely game. Somewhere a woman br br sits on her porch, looks up, composes lines, br touches her lips with slender fingertips, br and thinks—yes, this is a very lonely game.br br Hanque O . . .