The whitewoods rambled through the greensward glade
A silver stream of whispering water fell softly by its side
Crimson cliffs rose around the rim, a single blade
Of guardian pine stood silently by its entrance
Waiting.
Still, it sits there, lit by midnight moon
Glowing grey, blackshadowed it lies,
Crossed by crispwinds, tree creaking, it sighs.
Pale deer, specters, glide gently 'neath the bowed branches
While ghosts wend their way through thickets.
Soon.
A symphony of silence begins to the east
Cold crystal stars, glittersharp scattered across
Deep black velvet
Soften, as a gentle warmth smoothly melts them from the sky.
Suddenly, slowly, a retarded radiance cautiously creeps
Toward the darkness
Cunningly stalks, seemingly sleeps, then
Springs
Only to miss. The readyfled night was frightened away.
The next muted movement of the silent song:
The tangled treetrunks march into the black shadows,
Driving off the grey glow, implacable.
Filling the forest.
Rising the rhythm, crescendo is coming
Faster the feeling, climactic, orgasmic
Daybreak is dawning, sunlight exploding
Upon the green treetops, rising in splendor
Filling the glade with the fruit of its ardor.