Darkness has fallen down on this little town made of pine wood, stone of many, and thin plates of glass. For that winter nears, the people must be ready. Lingering, lights, from, the homes, sings softly, of burning fireplaces, cloth gas lamps, and small pale white, wax candles.
Those amber radiances match of the stars and waning moon, yet colder and unfriendly, but the colors bare that of rose, tan, creamy hues.
The flaming strides of the trees bend to the winds that keeper of winter could only do. Swirls of the fresh frosty airs blow faster and faster, for that greens near look as if their flames of hell. Trying, hard, to piece, the night skies, with each, lash. But, the stars of distance light beam brighter, to tame that lone flame.
That lonely sunburned moon, finds a way to smile happily, of those, people, below. Upon seeing, that town has slowly started to rest itself. Over those mountains, behind their bare colors of black and blue, slowly change lighter and lighter.
The new morn was nearing. Itâ€™s time to bid good dusk pleasant dreams, as well.
Closing, one, self-own lone window. Only having the little sprite keeper of, snow, sleet, and ice, cloak the once smooth window in a waving icy ferns, blinding everything in a new light to see, in a unworldly sight, of how maybe the sprite sees it too.
For one will not know, until maybe, the next night fall, that small sprite of mischief will come again, greet and show wonder this night. Until, this is only a good night, under the stars, in a restless sleep.
A Starry Night by Vincent Van Gogh
Made in June of 1889
Location when painted; Saint-RÃ©my-de-Provence Asylum, southern of France