Still, calm, air
the sound of soft footfalls,
the smell of Vanilla pipe tobacco,
Stealing Marches over hushed fields
under a full moon.
Soft loam and hard soles
meet secretly in the darkness,
Betrayed by the pale clear light of the moon
tracks lightly impressed in the
barely breeze-tossed grass.
over hills and through valleys asleep
one moves smoothly in the night
without a care.
Shadow and smoke,
they cross the ground as if eternal
leaving signs of their humanity
few will ever know.
A spirit freed
from sin, hell and heaven
released into the world of night,
contemplation, and peace;
Of cool air on the face,
gentle breezes’ caress.
The eternal quiet of the world asleep.
At peace; cool, collected, poised
Trees stand as they ever have
striving to relieve Atlas
of a burden too great.
Between their silent goal and their roots
there is a figure floating under the full moon,
amid a faint scent of smoke,
stealing marches over hushed fields.