Black silk falls so slow

over pleasantly gray painted peaks

and heather crags

and green grassy hills



Shimmering sheet

snagged on the slow and sleepy sun

pulled and pulled and pulled

over these giant heads

who roll eternally into their brethren

always on to other things

rubbing shoulders with close kin or distant friends



They are ever bellying up towards the moon

who resigning herself to neither designation

answers to no one

and makes not a single exception

showing her wild bald head

long before the suns proud end



He seems not to object

wisely secure with his crown

and simply whispers coolly

in ancient languages of old forgotten things.