A Poet's Journal

A Night

As a daubed yellow disc slowly slips beneath the horizon,

A giant milky, speckled orb arises.

The silhouettes of pines plaster the horizon,

And a spray of light faintly illuminates them.

Twinkling above me not the stars, 

But a mass of billowing clouds,

Erasing each star from the stark sky.

In the distance little sparks flicker,

The owls hoot,

And I sit.

The milky orb detaches itself from the branches from the trees,

And dances above them.

A sweet hum is played,

As the wind tickles my skin.

Splotches of rain bombard me,

And soon recede.

The clouds vanish, and the sky is once again embroidered  with its twinkling lights.