To Nature.

The faint hour falls where the world is still,
the deer bedding down to sleep, owls nesting,
sounds so soft, like cracks of twigs and stale leaves;
some minds are tricked into sensing silence,
but I hear the world come alive at dusk,
for this is the time when the static dies
and all can be heard which is in alignment:
the scampers of mice away from hawk's eyes,
seeking shelter from Death's penetrating gaze;
sighs of small chicks, hunkered down for the night,
mother's watchful eye never straying from
their heaving breasts, so full of life and dreams;
the hum of cicadas clinging to bark,
pine, oak, birch: all suited for their night-song,
a symphony conducted only by the wind
dancing along the branches wistfully…
A breath of the fall-night air shocks my lungs;
the notes of the twilight sonata sting

My eyes, tears clinging to my brown lashes.

Perhaps the wind does not form my teardrops,

But the unity with which nature lives,

An unkempt balance of cyclical work,

With no need for human mediation.

What glory have I stumbled upon now,

In moonlit wanderings when the world sleeps,

And dreams in peaceful motions like the sea?