Seventeen and six moons abroad—
the moons at home too abundant
to count, too redundant an amount—
I've come to meet.

The small one, she's fast and fleet,
So swiftly she flies past my treading feet.
She shows me the frontier like chewed up dirt
and morning dew who knew not where to settle:
not on succulent nor where the nettle grew.

So, petulant, I flew
and the sky turned six times red reflective
from that massive eye,
seen only when nights choose to fall,
slow, plodding and so, nodding, I crawl.

I stow my packs and camp in scarlet glow,
rest uneasy until those morning droplets
once more know not where to plant
their floundering forms,
too sparse, like drymouth spittle,
to kiss those deep-wandering worms
beneath the surface, but I don't curse this.

Low, some little chant utters from my lips,
gun and sword slung at my hips,
weary from from my meandering trips,
"Seventeen and six moons abroad,"
intermittent 'tween the sun's searing throw,
baking rays upon a surly mount taking days,
surely I've lost count, but certain to surmount
what the sun threw my way, so I may rest
for seventeen and six moons abroad.