Nocturne

When the night is well underway,
And the silent, silvery moon's risen high in the sky,
Watery creatures, slender arms and scales shimmering, will say:
“Listen to the whisper of the little ones in the underbrush;
And listen to that cunning old owl—pretending he's a gargoyle and not a fowl.”
“Indeed. And listen to the muttering of the souls of those who drowned,
Their breath prompting the foliage into pointless flight. But let us be still now, so we can hear
The moon,
And bask in her light.”