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.

END

Warm December