I wrote you yesterday, just a note
on the back of an envelope, the bleak
paper shining white like the pocked moon.

I remember in summer, watching the moon
set with you, waiting as the sky blued and the first note
of birdsong made the world seem a little less bleak.

Birds lie, though. The earth is barren and bleak
as the sky where useless clouds gather to protest the moon.
I threw away the note.

This train whistle calls with one long note; the bleak voices of the coyotes are a prayer to the moon.

This tritina brought to you courtesy of the YW December poetry slam. If you want three words for a tritina, get thee to the coffeehouse. Mine were moon, note, and bleak, from Stacie, Christine, and Cynthia.