The wind whispers

The birds are not still

I lean out from the edge of the windowsill.

Across waters free from the plough of any craft,

To a horizon distant, wide,

And not with lack.

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For in this realm of warm saffron,

Sky silver and celestial white,

Shines a satellite that brings lake, firmament and clouds together.

The third element to the pale haze,

And the Clouds that rise above in this sweeping,

Tranquil,

Expanse:

Crescent Moon.