Night rolls in like the tide,
mist laden and certain
it reigns over the land.
Muted moonbeams make surf
on fields freshly greened.

A distant whistle caught in the fog
swirls like old memories
of mornings spent in the rain.
Saturated, the lawn grew wild
with tall grass

but that’s the train whistle talking.
The crickets are singing;
I pull my sweater tighter around me
resisting a yearning to fly.
Night rolls in like the tide.

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