A centurion wind marched over treetops,
touching everything, then slipped away.
Fathoms of gray clouds deepened the overhead.
Valleys of ruminated mists shaped the sky
with inanimate objects.
A dull gauzy light stretched weakly onto the ground.
A few birds flew hurriedly by. A screen door
slammed shut.
Yellow eyes of night crept in on silent paws,
dragging with it shades and sounds of night.
In a stream, pebbles mumbled while tumbling by
as day relinquished its place.
Roger Singer 