Oh, how good is a night song?
At home in the country these creatures call.
The crickets create a chorus with no cane or top hat,
Rubbing their legs together like the lovers indoors who listen and are soothed.

Contours of the wild, amplifying amphibians,
From the frogs through the trees
On the seasons warm breeze.
Their Lilly pads- their soap boxes.
Their song- their argument: “I’m best…pick me.”

Owls constantly questioning identity,
A lone wolf, crying for company.

These voices, these songs,
Black, only because they are swaddled in the night.
Night songs.
And what a masterful conductor.

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