a little night music

It is night.

Crickets and other summer creatures frolic in the inky-black meadow--a mariachi band outside my window. I imagine them in their snappy jackets of green, brown, and black, beating time cheerfully by strumming, sawing, whirring, and croaking; each according to their ability. Most of them sport mustaches, I think. And pointy-toed cowboy boots.

It is night.

Farmers are already half-way through their journey of sleep, dreaming of the morrow's plunder- when supple yellow meadows will be invaded with red tractors. Behind them, rows of teeth-like scythes will chew and spit, chew and spit. The whine of gears, the pummel of pistons, the jostle of tires over ruts: it is the dream-music of summer.

It is night.

An owl keeps his night-watch, listening.
Listening to us sleep. Listening and watching.
He shifts on his perch
under the white-drum moon.


In and around the farmhouse, other music:
the rise and fall of chests with airy breath,
the sharp cry of a child,
a mother's murmur.

In the pantry, vinegar spiders its way deep into the fruit.
a dog stirs in his warm bed of grass
the dust of a long day sifts to the floor,
a star silently scrapes the sky,
someone prays while half asleep.

pillows catch worries
sorrows
all.