Paroles: Buffalo Springfield. Hour Of Not Quite Rain.

In the hour of not quite rain
When the fog was fingertip high
The moon hung suspended
In a singular sky

Deeply and beyond seeing
Not wishing to intrude
Bathed in its own reflection
The water mirrored the moon

The tumbling birds have now sobered
From the leaves of their nursery
Like shadowy, quiet children
Watching sleepily