A wooded walk through half-lit night,
Cascading from the moon pale light,
Wrestles through charcoal smoke to sight,
It's bone white glow submerged in plight,
Then busting through again with might,
The moon makes charcoal dust and smoke
Like passing shadows beneath a pristine cloak.

On the clock,
My hand's not motionless by the side,
It wiggles and squiggles,
A firm pen in its stride,
And a stream of logic pours out from my mind,
Hopefully correct most times out of five.

And off it goes,
Reasoning with symbols,
Considering the knowledge bestowed,
Be glorified by such things in your heavenly abode.