A Young Horse Floats in a Pond of Grass

The trees sway to and fro
And under the stars,
And under the moon,
And the cry of the silvery loon,
A rustling breeze
Whispers to me,
Words of peace,
But not so clear,
I only perceive a
Continuous, undulating
Static, upon the angular branches
One, two; one, two
A branch snaps and crashes.

It is a night such
As that before a storm,
The cool wind becomes more frigid,
Numbing my body,
I spread my arms,
Close my eyes,
The trees bend.
The loon’s cry
Echos, echos and resounds
Across arching limbs,
Softly dissolving into each other,
Fingers of leaves fold
And melt into green paint,
Dripping from wooden brushes,
Merging with the song into a pool
Of verdant water,
As the breeze ruffles my mane.