The clock is dead.
The Lake is bowing her gorgeous head
only to the ebbing sun.
Her indigo blue
dress has blushed crimson slate,
and she’s twirling to greet
a great rising stone moon.
Enter the bear. Brown. Lumbering
along. The scent of silence that is snow.
Campfire crackling on tongue.
the day ends with a star twinkle
Prompted by Quickly in November, day 25.