Bonta's poem circles around a harvest moon that can barely be seen, and the speaker seems to mourn that loss. The opening images are odd and tender: a ravaged ladder, a house of straw, a fetus's fine hair, God's thumbprint. They suggest something fragile and half-finished, perhaps the moon, perhaps the season itself.
Then modern spectacle pushes in. Rock concert fog, feedback, and spotlights crowd out quiet. The image of cormorants in choke collars, unable to swallow even "the ghost of a fish," stands out. It suggests creatures made to work but denied any reward, which may reflect how we treat the harvest, or the night.
The poem also sets bright stage lights against bright white tombstones, implying that too much glare leaves no room for poetry or rest. By the end, the speaker says you must drive an hour to find real darkness. The closing "poor moon / poor harvest" is quietly sad, almost like a shrug. The mood is wistful, a little wry, and tinged with grief.