In the hour of not quite rain
When the fog was finger tip high
The moon hung suspended in a singular sky
Deeply and beyond seeing,
Not wishing to intrude
Bathed in its own reflection
The water mirrored the moon
The tumbling birds have now sobered
In the hour of not quite rain
When the fog was finger tip high
The moon hung suspended in a singular sky
Deeply and beyond seeing,
Not wishing to intrude
Bathed in its own reflection
The water mirrored the moon
The tumbling birds have now sobered