Moonlight is a holy thing
a sacred event that bows the eyes
to a pious dream.

The pine creeks beneath
the leather shod foot

Stars are obscured here
and there behind the small
of darkling clouds

A breeze speaks the last of day
a chill saunters the spine

Water is the transformation
the endless now
that drifts below a ever-changing surface.

When the old owl sobs a scream
it is the proclamation
that the present is his.

He, and only he
tells the story of this rotting bridge
to the other side