The stormwind stirs the leaves
in alternating rustles and roars,
occasionally gust-shaken chimes
ringing manic in the night.
I watch dark fingers in the sky
prod and pull and push an
ever-shifting mass of glow
about the sky, sometimes
abalone, oft times bone-white.
Yet always through this
old shimmered inn glass darkly
I know the moon still darts free
despite the hunting tempest.
