The moon in sheepish yellows,
Like a button pokes half through,
The swirling cloud become a garb,
The shadows drawing wisps into a hem,
I see the evening air is clothed,
That's good. The eves grow chilly as we slip,
Into the colder months.

An adventure trod in jargon,
Functors maps and applications,
Sweet symbols in aesthetic syntax,
Faintly glancing upon the beams,
Of hidden structures in this lake of reason.