It's three sticks come at One:Eleven.
The Whet Owls' sight a-glare.
The forest black to touch the sky
where moonlight's blue to pair.
With crisp cool air between the trees.
Smells floating on their leaves.
The Pine scent rolling over dew
where dampness for all sieves.
And wild grass bending in the wind.
This bleached straw shining moon.
A whisper sent into the blades.
where fear comes out the tune
And Peat Moss clinging to the rocks
where run-off's cold to touch.
The mist been filtered by the air.
No purer juice as much.
This twilight dotted with it's stars.
A night time quiet rests.
Where spirits walk in aw of all
and nature knows no pests.
Copyright © Trevor McLeod | Year Posted 2016