by Terry Trowbridge
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Humidity casts a cold spell over the Great Lakes. When the spell is broken, humidity continues to flicker through the grasses and leaves. The dampness of breath and matted fur attracts housecats to the leaf piles where mouse-casting Spring elementals summoned little rodents into being. At night, the mist turns heavy and sinks to the ground, exposing the orchards to starlight. At day, water evaporates into a quick-sky of quicklime grey. The obscurantist Sun, having chased away Enlightenment comforts—too soon for lawn chairs— into the barn workbench beer routine, will remain invisible. An eclipse is due in three days. The cats might react confusedly. The mice might emerge in daylight And look up at the shadow of the Moon darkening circle through the cloud cover. Shadow weather defines a season of transitions.
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Terry Trowbridge’s poems have appeared in many journals including, previously, The New Verse News. Terry is grateful to the Ontario Arts Council for his first writing grant, and their support of so many other writers during the polycrisis.
I loved this poem! To me, the most magical part of experiencing a total solar eclipse is the way daytime transforms into nighttime in every imaginable way. In 2017, I went to Alliance, Nebraska to see that eclipse. I felt so transformed by the experience that I soon will be embarking on a journey to see Monday‘s eclipse.