The mountains and trees turn to grey,
in submission to the consuming night,
and purple twilight swallows the rest,
while a gentle rain begins to wet the air,
tapping upon the leaves with soft melody.
The moon then comes slowly out of hiding
and lends warm glow to the vacuum of stars –
tho’ its proto-ambient display is an illusion;
the rain then shies itself away from the sky,
and the night air is newly dry and sweet.
A sudden zephyr rushes thru’ the trees,
momentarily hushing a chorus of insects,
which had begun at the clearing of clouds;
the song of a night bird, far in the distance,
continues, unabated, while night wears on.
The wind dies away to beget a soft breeze,
while a chorus of night creatures rises again;
now a young girl walks amid nature’s bedding,
ne’er to be trivialized as merely a mortal child;
she walks among dew-covered grass and flora,
barefoot, as is her custom, and loosely spirited.
The grasses caress her feet with wet adoration,
As tho’ bathing the creature who made them;
just sixteen, she’s tall and pale, silky skinned,
with curves that can move mountains in pride,
unaware of her beauty, as a rose has no ego.
She walks here silently, without warning to light,
no shadow dare catch her elusive flesh and form,
only the rustling of distant breezes sound her way;
she disturbs a great grey heron, just for a moment,
and the bird takes flight, too o’ercome with envy.