There was a silence unbroken
when midnight had passed.
The street, the town, all quiet like
a rock. Above, a black horizon
dotted with unnamed galaxies.
I point out the stars with my finger
as I surrender a warm breath into
a cool evening; it fades slowly while
joining dark fathoms. My steps draw
a line to home. I calmly accept the
usual path, anticipating home just
ahead. Boughs of pines sway lightly
overhead. A paper Mache moon
watches me.
Roger Singer 