The wet cows, the purple horizon line

The wet cows, the purple horizon line,
the orange glow of the city, the surface
of the road reflecting light. The Moon hangs
somewhere obscured by clouds moving slowly

over the tops of the trees. The moss moves
and the water flows, I remember the names
of the birds, the dialogue of the mystics in
a dream, the lightning leaping between clouds

in the summer sky. I traced the contour
of her hip and breast, the stars of Scorpio
and a wandering Mars. I can't remember days

or weeks or months, I cannot distinguish
between love and indifference. The wet cows
don't say a word as the storm rolls in.