2021 theme: RUPTURE

CHILD’S MOON Mara Bateman I wake up in the dark to some activity among the sagebrush. There is no wind and the pale cold of the night rests like a still hand on my chest. But: there is talk among the small, gnarled bodies nearby.

I stay still, barelynot the grass beneath me, barelynot the moon shadow resting like a hound along my side. It’s new, this type of listening, fragile. To disturb these conversations is to destroy them.

So I lay there, still as last year’s leaves, and listen.

There is a disturbance in the sagebrush. A roaring monster arrived and departed in the night, its eyes long legs of light across the hills; its feet rubbertreaded, crushing grass and branch and bird.

In the broken frost of its passage something is left behind. Something living, smaller than a polecat, larger than a rabbit, with a naked face and two moon-eyes. An owl predicts its death. A mouse hides under it, and perceives it has a heart.

Above me, the moon ticks towards setting. A small breeze says hush.

I stand up and let the shade slide of to crouch at my feet. I turn in the direction of the disturbance and walk. The sagebrush taps me and chimes with ice, but doesn’t speak. My breath is white. I might arrive too late.

I don’t, not quite.

There is a tear in the hillside ahead, tire tracks that cut down to the frozen mud. Here is where a truck turned back. Here in the grass is what it left behind.

I walk over and kneel down. A little face looks up at me, frowning. Fists kick a little.

Carefully, I pick it up. It’s heavier than it looks. The mouse darts into the grass faster than an eye.

I don’t know anything about babies. This is certainly the irst one I have ever held. I know something about seedlings, however, and it’s winter. I open up my coat and plant the baby snugly against my chest. It folds in. It becomes a seed of itself, knees and elbows itting frog-like. I zip it in tight.

There are antelope out here and in the pre-dawn I go to visit them.

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