The half moon, a fermata
somnolent and frozen,
marks a pause and splits
the midnight harmony.

Blanketed in sedge,
the ditches protest mutely,
and frogs, the muezzins of shadow,
have fallen silent.

In the old town tavern
the sad music stopped,
and the oldest of stars
has damped its hurdy-gurdy.

The wind has settled
in dark mountain hollows,
and a solitary poplar,
Pythagoras of chaste plains,
wants to lift up its hundred-year-old hand
and slap the moon in the face.