The night came alive beneath a sea of stars, warm for
December, the Heartland giving pause before a winter
Yet to come, a kind of remembrance for a season that
Was, laid to rest in a shroud of dew covered leaves.
And the trees that spread those shrouds, they moved
With limbs outstretched, swayed to a music only
Heard on nights such as these, a breathless crescendo
Of silence marred only by the wind that sang it.
Shadows and mist converged on the forest floor, thick
With moonlight, grasping tendrils of ethereal solitude
That formed as pools without reflection in darkened
Hollows between gently rolling hills.
Somewhere beyond the fringes of twisted root and
Swaying branch, a night bird called out as if in defiance
Of those dancing trees, the restless music of that warm
December night, beneath a cloud-shadow moon.
Unheeded, it called out no more.