8 Pm.26 March In The Plague Year 2020 Poem by Edwin Hopper

The razor pink sliver of a new moon,
peers through trees to a land that's not immune.

Star light shines, through skies where no one flies.
On petrified streets, dry bars where no one buys.

Bats flutter over streams in air so clean,
you'd think the schemes of men had never been.

Then lonely cans are beaten for the cause.
Isolated shouts, whistles, dim applause.

Without pretence, facing the dark immense.
Fenced-in folk grasp for communal sense.

From house to house over fields in thanksgiving,
for doctors and nurses who keep us living.