Regular Poem: Before the Mosquitoes

Before the mosquitoes
but after the frost
between the gales
and under the foggy moon

there’s something
wet and brief
smelling of trees and mud
tasting of metal–
but the kind that’s been
submerged
in a man-made lake–
feeling like a heavy blanket
smooth and clean and cold
like when you’ve just
slid in bed
after a long day.

It’s something,
and it flickers
like lightning,
and it haunts
like thunder.