Untitled Poem, 10/1

The blue-violet twilight, with its suspended slivered moon,
Draws the sky and emerald trees below to one darkness.
Human stillness gives way to the hymn of the woods,
Sung in native orchestration.

The crickets’ soprano crescendos
Above The cicadas’ substantial contralto;
And the summer night air lilts and glides
Through the trees, keeping tempo
With the baritone rhythm
Of the creek-bed bullfrogs.

Dissonant footsteps displace the gravel
Path; the small stones guide us to where
The woods end.

Across the open clearing we are walking,
Your hand lingering just below my neck,
As the thick air precipitates
In fine, dewy drizzle,
And the orchestration of our own voices
Replaces the forest song fading behind us.