Adventuring into the landscape after 2 a.m.

The rain has stopped
but the magic has not ended.
Water still falls from building gutters
mixed with the drips
from branches and leaves.

And there on the ground
a handful of yellow petals,
fallen from rain or careless hand
of a passing club-goer.
I stop to pick them up.

The first is silky wet,
then placing each one at a time,
carefully into my open palm,
I realize that treasure is not what I hold
but finding myself where I am.

Setting them back under the bush,
looking down the row as I walk on by,
wishing to see a fey friend tell me ‘hi,’
and one branch out of all the others
slowly sways as if waving ‘good-bye!’