Hear the bugle, day is done,

gone the sun . . .

clouds reduce moonlight to a blurry hint,

and for a winter night

it is not so cold, not cold enough to freeze

the rivulets

the last few days of rain, not snow, have brought. 

Uneventful day, 

the bugle allows it more weight than I.

I tally it as one day nearer,

think—uneventful day,

not a wasted day, rather, a day undefined,

one might say—it is, or, it was—

it happened.