in which twilight brings air

slate baked; even the lizards

ran for cover and every plant

bent double, aching from

the strain of facing up to sun

relentlessly, cloudlessly. no

sounds until the twilight hour

when creatures felt the turn

of light and ventured out

across to air as tremulous

cadences moved the night.

That was before the wind.


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in which I ponder insect chorus

The heat sits tonight,

hanging around

summer town.

A choir is about,

expanding time

with a steadiness of sound,

an undulating beat

singing into dark.

Bird lingers too

descending far into  breeze

until all that remains

is insect tap and insect hum,

the very definition

of this day’s dusk,

on and on


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