Lark and the Moon Whistle

Lark and the Moon Whistle

I scraped at white edged driveway ice
  With my heavy shovel blade,
Late upon an afternoon hour
  Near the close of cold today

Dusted with powder snow and tossed sand,
  The drive lay bare before the dusk,
Dry white with winter ice salt,
  Evaporated, leaving a salt residue calculus
Upon the drive to seem it too was snow,
  And aglow by the light of an unseen moon

When on a barkless branch of the old oak,
  On a limb faded dry and white as bone,
Began a horned lark to sing,
  Warm coloratura tones

In conversation with, of all things, the horizon’s rising moon!
  Who feckless, face-full, and antipodal the setting sun,
Rose with pursed lips, as if to mime, returning in kind,
  Its recitatives to the bird

Which I could not hear,
  I could hear the lark, oh yes, though (I am sure)
Moon whistles cannot sound the black vacuum of space,
  Nor could any lark song ever greet those cratered ears

Yet all the same,
  From lark to moon
    From moon to I
      Then I to lark

Our song round tripped its course once more,
  And we were home again