The traveler stopped for rest
the sky a silver hue,
the sun setting in the west
the waters, a dark blue.
The birds echoed out from the far
the wind, and the sky,
he reached and painted the above with stars,
his soul upon high.
The crickets sounded from the forest,
the frogs sang in tune
he listened to the nightly chorus,
while talking to the moon.
The trees, they swayed to and fro
and daced with the faint gale
he stood still, watching snow
peacefully, in the silver-lined veil.
The crabgrass swayed with the stream
crimson filled the evening blue,
he traveled this dream --
the next one is meant for you.