The lake sits quiet.
Not a ripple stirs
The shore. Night is a threadbare
Shroud, hung loose
Over the cool waters.
Stars dance,
And the silver moon bares
A crescent smile. Scents
Of mint and clove
Drift on the gentlest
Breeze. A single
Flower blooms,
Its velvet petals dark
As dusk. The crickets
Trill. The field mice
Peep. All this
And not a soul to see
The patient beauty
Of a summer night.
He Who Wanders 