At Night


I sleep on the porch;

a breeze blows through the screens,

I look up at the stars as I stretch

under the Big Dipper.  An old sleeping bag on

worn floor boards, and I lose myself

to the evening’s music.  Until the winter

cold drives me to mattress and comforter,

the porch holds my dreams: night serenades me

under constellations, in orchestras of crickets,

the frogs’ rejoinders, and

the trees’ rustling cantatas.


Two-thirty a.m., I wake; stillness

would overwhelm reverie, if not for the river’s

rushing, an irrepressible surge rising from wooded earth and

turbulent water, an overflow streaming through me

in darkness: night carries me

beyond myself without




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