The night is different from the day and the evening is different from the late night. One night is different from another. One night there was no moon. The stars were hard to find from where I was in my back yard. The sky was gray, not black the way it is on most clear nights. All the light I had seemed to come from inside the house.
I had just taken out the trash bin to the street curb. I looked off into my back yard and I caught site of some trees. They were shaped like bow and arrows aimed at the sky. The trees seemed to be speaking to me, telling me they deserved a poem.
silhouettes of growth
against a pale sky