A thin curve of moonlight drifts across the water,
quiet as silk drawn through a half-waking dream.
Ripples loosen their shapes as they move,
softening the night's unspoken edges.
Clouds pass without touching anything,
leaving a faint shimmer behind them—
a trail of pale breath dissolving
before it can be named.
Somewhere beneath the surface,
a slow current folds itself inward,
turning like a whispered gesture
meant only for the dark.
The crescent bends lower,
casting a veil so delicate
it almost forgets to fall.
Veils moving through silent water,
faint outlines shifting without sound—
a language made of curves and distance,
told only when the moon is thin enough.
A small ring of light expands,
breaks, and gathers again,
never deciding which shape belongs to it.
And the water, patient,
carries each wandering fragment
toward a shore that offers no reply.
The night grows softer at its edges,
and the crescent, barely awake,
keeps drawing its slow silver path
through every quiet thing.
