night river sky (not a poem, but I thought i'd post it here anyway.)

It is night. I sit on the bank of the st. Mary's river. Its surface is rippled glass. The moon shines a pathway across to the other side, beconing me to follow. But I am too mesmerized by the gentle lapping at my feet. Sand and gravel roll and tumble, and bubbles fizz. I watch a little water creature tossed playfully toward the bank and pulled back out with each wave. It doesnt seem to mind. It goes on its persistent and patient exploration between the tug and push of the water. Around me, the trees look dark and mysterious. If I believed that trees have spirits, I would believe it most at times like these, when I could almost make out a face in their moving branches. Further down a dead tree stands like a monument to fogotten agony, its naked grey branches reaching like crooked fingers. The luscious green black of the other trees contrasts sharply. Life and shadow. Death. Death's crooked, twisted limbs. A night bird calls. It is an erie sound, a hoarse, resonating croak. For a moment I could have believed it was something else in the night forrest that made that sound. Some unnamed being. I shiver, then laugh aloud. The soft sand is still warm. I lie back against the gravelly dust and contemplate this night river sky. There is beauty in the blackness of night, and in this day-same place, a different world. Gray-black clouds have crept up on the shining moon, obscuring it partly. Is it too bright to be as much a part of night as this starless sky? I resent the misty shroud for a short moment, watching it curl into itself. but it caresses the mooon's face, and I catch my breath. The silver-blue moonbeams light on tips and sides of clouds, changing them into something spectacular. A halo of golden light around the moon settles on the mists, and they resemble linings of a womb. If had a choice of mothers, I would be born from this sky or into it a thousand times.