​Midnight clouds
hug the ground
mingling with
the gauzy fog
to shield the earth
from the baleful moon.
They amplify
ambient sounds
of trickling streams,
a feral cat’s growl,
a dying mouse screams
to the mournful baying
of a sleepless hound.
They bathe with the scent
of Heather and pine,
the earthiness of moss
painting the Cypress bark,
iridescent in the dark,
its branches burdened,
hanging low
to sweep from the water
the detached petals
of upstream willows,
white like snow,
interspersed with mimosa blossoms,
and Dogwood pinks,
that seek the moon to reflect
agonizing over their disconnect
from the trees.
Enticed by soft winds
and their insouciant
whispering soliloquy.
M. Zane McClellan
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