When The Wind Moans Moon

Running with breath through the moss I come up along the window of your sight. You stand there still taught and tight two tips pressed against my eyes as your Payne. Still your attitude is not as the wind ever shifting me around without sound as you listen ever brighter never burning out. You hear the moan you see the owl settle down in featherless sound at your feet. The dance of the oak this night as leaves feel braces sigh while limbs bow down exposing the home of the owl narrow across but deep inside in song with the heart. You list to the right and its left moving as if in sleep so deep you miss the touch inside the moss as it swims the air you breath. Back on your side the moon out side reflects off you even brighter as you roll over again now sure.