Windows opened wide.
The soft billow,
A curtain of ghosts beckon
The cool, dank night air.
Dark-checked timbers creak deeply,
Bowing like obedient servants
As late summer drifts in.
The wooden house
To the bewitching of the exotic,
Rattle-snaked, cicada sounds.
I barely hearing the crickets
Chirp and whistle,
For the blue night has me bedded down.
I am drifting fast in the quintessence.
A faucet drips a dull sound.
A donkey blows a raspberry,
My cat, dead on the bed with his low-pitched snoring.
Still, I am entranced.
Undisturbed, so easily willing.
Far, far away
A car shifts into second gear.
A dog barks.
My dog whimpers
At the sharp question of an owl.
I am barely making sense.
I can no longer keep up, sheeted in soft cotton
And lulled in the sleigh-bell sound of frogs.
I succumb to the night’s desire,
Played like another of her instruments.
My heavy breath draws deep and long and,
Soon in concert with the commotion.
And for all the din,
I hear nothing,
Falling fast to sleep on a late summer night.