It started about noon. On top of Mount Batte,

We were all exclaiming. Someone had a cardboard

And a pin, and we all cried out when the sun

Appeared in tiny form on the notebook cover.

It was hard to believe. The high school teacher

We’d met called it a pinhole camera,

People in the Renaissance loved to do that.

And when the moon had passed partly through

We saw on a rock underneath a fir tree,

Dozens of crescents—made the same way—

Thousands! Even our straw hats produced

A few as we moved them over the bare granite.

We shared chocolate, and one man from Maine

Told a joke. Suns were everywhere—at our feet.