The wind whispers


    The birds are not still


    I lean out from the edge of the windowsill.


    Across waters free from the plough of any craft,


    To a horizon distant, wide,


    And not with lack.


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    For in this realm of warm saffron,


    Sky silver and celestial white,


    Shines a satellite that brings lake, firmament and clouds together.


    The third element to the pale haze,


    And the Clouds that rise above in this sweeping,


    Tranquil,


    Expanse:


    Crescent Moon.