Night’s silent choir,
Patiently gathered around the roots of trees,
Inside the river’s long bend,
And in the shadows of boulders,
Passing time under morning’s great bridge.
.
Across:
The orange of maples.
Ahead:
Paws of a lone bear.
Behind:
Tracks of a fisherman’s boots
Through the damp, grey sand.
.
These might be cobblestone dreams
On a lazy afternoon,
But that was October’s rhythm:
Summer’s back porch, shaded
In creaky planks
And sliced tomato gluttons.
.
Now, the soft arc of light,
Chilled in air gone stiff and still,
Begging for hunched voices,
That dare not stir old winds,
From behind sedge and willow.
.
A conversation,
The groans and gripes of water on rocks,
Goodbyes of frogs and leaves and liquored blackberry sunsets,
The gratitudes of full moon clouds,
A gift of rain.
.
Hurry,
The long gaze of night
Will soon turn us to pebble and stone,
Smooth and round, barely colored,
In the fading light.
