Writing by moonlight on white paper, red pen
Out the window, black trees grow in a frost field sea
Simple silence to this early morning glee, broken
By fog horn regularly warning of the dangers to be
Yet, I, safely surrounded by glistening white lands,
Hear the horn sounds,
And desires are for the ocean’s calls.
Out the clear glass pane, where
A yellow feather clings,
After the bird hits and falls;
I watch the cloud change colors passing by the moon.