On the patio at the Mills House
just after the smoked fish appetizer

It’s beautiful, she says.
The paths of circumference. The maths
of stars and planet paths.
The fountain flows. The roses grow.
A crescent trajectory, not made by us;
by the universe.

It looks like the moon, he says. A classic quarter
with edges getting crispy. Wispy.
Slippery sliver of sun. Pure, penny-colored bright.

One, two and then all of us, in paper glasses
lean back to blue sky, clouds flying.
Odd sunlight and clear shadows. All shadows.
The fountain flows. The roses grow.
We’re in it now, the ring of fire.

– Sandy Lang, Aug. 21, 2017