From the terrace,
half abandoned daylight
slowly disconnects itself, yielding
to a gray-crimson shade
until night paints dark.
Small shadowed noises sound like giants
wrestling. Bats curve the air. An owl
holds court on a royal top branch.
Working arms of winds stretch into branches,
whistling a low shudder, pulsing the ground.
The moon howls out a story of light,
spreading from limitless time and shape,
half cold, half hot with a chiseled face
Observing us from its pedestal.
Roger Singer 