A silver ribbon winds through sleeping hills, Where cold stars dance on dark and glassy flows. No voice disturbs the night, save whippoorwills That call from shadows where the wild herb grows. An old fisherman’s boat, by moonlight graced, Drifts with the current’s slow and timeless sway. He casts his net with weathered hands, embraced By mists that shroud the bay. No worldly thoughts remain beneath this sky, Only the river’s soul, the moon’s calm grace. The water holds both earth and heaven n...
