White China Plates II

You could have driven
a pick-up truck
thru spokes of that moon, so big and radiant
this upended water chestnut -
ground mist weeping
in the shadows
flutter of an old woman's shawl,
the clammy smell like
a child's fingers to the face,
a little unsettling
crickets and dew in brigades
running tears on the old
shoe leather.