Night rolls in like the tide.
Mist laden and certain
it reigns over the land.
Vagrant 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 has grown wild
with tall grass
but that’s just the train whistle talking.
The crickets are singing.
I pull my sweater tighter around me
uncertain if I’m resisting a yearning
to fly or to swim in search of Atlantis.