The moon,
A half of what it was,Glowers,
Ashamed,
A-hidden,
Behind the tops of roofs,
Of trees,
In silence.
Night closes
Around what shines,A narrow cone
Of uncounted light,
Just an echo
Of the sun,
An unrehearsed refrain.
A rising,
The scent of A million grasses
Cut down,
Rears into the mist.
A haze.
Tomorrow will be hot.
