A Few Drops of Dew

That last sliver of silence between night and sunrise.

They slide quietly by,
loose cottony shapes,
abstract chickens and dragons,
the head of a cat,
the tall pillowy hat
of a drum major.

Starry Night by Vincent van Gogh.

They roll and tumble
in slow motion,
opening gaping holes
to the inky cosmos,
making room
for moonlight
to seep through,
before shifting 
and loosely forming the shape
of the United States
then Mexico.

Their high altitude frolicking
coincides with the last slice
of ultimate silence 
between night and sunrise,
that brief moment
when clouds slide slowly by,
their edges highlighted 
by the light of a crescent moon,
the trees and their leaves still
but for a few drops of heavy dew
falling through 
to the ground.

That one last peaceful moment,
when about all you hear 
is the steady rhythm of your pulse
inside your ears,
before the distant din
of the highway commences again,
before the crows kick in,
before the beep, beep, beep 
of a delivery truck 
down the street
signals the start 
of another day.