Quatrains by Don Thompson

December Fields


The day ends in mid-afternoon,

Already exhausted, the year’s

Last light soaked up by dry brush.

It gets dark before dark.





Moonlight smokes among trees

Stripped bare and blackened.

You still taste ashes

Years after the fire’s gone out.





A frog crosses its known world,

Leaving clouds of mud in the shallow water.

This pool will be dry next week,

But frogs know where to start over.





The fenced land glows in the distance.

It’s quiet enough to hear insects whisper

Secrets in a language that’s dead to us.

Somewhere out there a bush is burning.