Dimming the fireflies, a horizon rushes to flee the harvest moon; green light drowns the mallards in the reeds, water walkers and thier silver circles continue unabaited to the crickets song, rising shadows play the pitch against the pale in the spaces between thicket and thrush, a slight scraping sound; a mindless leaf races, swept by an unseen wind
Reason for writing:
something pretty (hehe) like a picture..bla bla
Birth sign: Not entered
You need to log in to edit this poem if it is yours.
View more poems by Peter Sorbi.