An east wind.

Sobered by moonlight,

sensing my own existence,

who I am and where.

The moon reflected

from the rippled surface like

a stream of dollars.

The bare, lichen-covered 

gray rock in the moonlight.

The sound of a distant piano.

An east wind.

The clock strikes plainly 
ten or eleven p. m.

I sit on the rock

and wrestle with the melody

that possesses me.

zphx 20190512