Beneath the canopy
of the old great oak.
My head tilts awkwardly
towards the sky,
as midnight walks
ever so slowly towards us.

Elder statesman of the back yard,
seat in which the wise owl
quietly works over
his silent wisdom.
Your leafless arms stretched out
before the vastness of the night.

Moving shyly in your presence,
the moon hides her face,
in a cloak of clouds.
Orions twirling, nightly dance,
seems to spark,
brushing against the ends
of your black boney fingers.