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In the time the moon moves from horizon to eave and the wind makes a grand curve from north to east a poem comes to me, whole in my head. But as I start to write the thing down, the last of the candle slithers down the bottle and hisses out in the dregs of wine. The Seth Thomas chimes, chimes, again chimes. The pen falls from this hand. From this, the pen falls, chimes, again chimes. The Seth Thomas chimes out in the dregs of wine down the bottle and hisses the last of the candle slithers. But as I start to write the thing down, a poem comes to me, whole in my head, and the wind makes a grand curve from north to east in the time the moon moves from horizon to eave. © Dale R. Hobson. All rights reserved. 
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