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.



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