Hour of not Quite Rain
In the hour of not quite rain
When the fog was finger tip high
The moon hung suspended in a singular sky
/ /
Deeply and beyond seeing,
Not wishing to intrude
Bathed in its own reflection
The water mirrored the moon
The tumbling birds have now sobered
From the leaves of their nursery
Like shadowy, quiet children watching sleeply
by: José Duarte