Nighttime Is Homecoming - A Sonnet

In the fresh morning light I gaze over the leaf-strewn lawn that was shrouded in moon-white just four hours ago. Whether I call myself night-owl or night-hawk, the result is the same ruffled feathers. My mind follows the tides of NIGHT: its slippery contours, its slow array of stars shaping secret constellations, its translation of day's frivolity into the stuff of mystery, with its silence composing new Hymns to the Night, its labyrinths interlocking in a fused pathway leading the night walker to transcendence.