the stars are gone with the black

without a trace
without footprints to follow

where they fly

starlings are already bright at their perch
singing spells to raise the casing of day

watercolors, salmon and pink, paint
impressions of mountains and cloud-scapes

dreams waiting to be awakened and real

nearby, lumbering shadows flee my room
deserting to the silent hallway

soon, the sun will intercede
the sky be crowned

pure, firm, fearless like fire wild

and there, the slivered Moon, once her own
glory will lose her iridescence

yet, stay at her post

as if she were called to be matron
the sun’s sole pale attendant

– Michael Parker