Ninety-eight percent,
turns out isn’t mostly dim,
but sorta smoky
Like those brush fire days
when blazes light up the range
and wind blows our way,
Dimming the mountains.
I expected more twilight–
maybe a few stars.
Still—through the glasses,
the moon slid over the sun,
leaving a crescent.
It grew chill, and still,
and leaf shadows lay stipled.
Not Totality.