Quiet

The gibbous moon reveals the landscape, but the details are subdued. The dark trees are joined by their outstretched shadow selves, flattened and hinting only of the color of whatever they lie upon— vague green of lawn, gray of cement, black of asphalt, brown of the leaves the trees have already lost. The moon-lent shades of the living leaves are covering the actual dead, lying upon them like translucent shrouds.

Last night at this time it was all cracking thunder and flashes of lightning, and the rain soaking the dark ground. The unexpected storm was as violent as tonight's moonlight is placid. The shadows were brief and flickering, and what light reached the ground shimmered on the raindrops and rivulets and slicked pavements. Changeable autumn, always reminding me how, no matter how much nights do lengthen, each remains fleeting.


( Sunday Verse )