At Sunset


In the hollow he struts beneath budding poplar and dogwood,

his chest puffed, his gait stately and slow.

His voice rings against the hills, his song one he’s known since birth,

or perhaps longer still, embedded in his DNA, in his blood.

The spring forest reddens with the set of the sun

and evening birds stir and call, whippoorwill

and hoot owl calls mixing with the turkey’s tremolo.

Songs of the lone males  seeking mates echo in the dusk,

a masculine musical mingling

as darkness rises from beneath brush and rock.

The tom is silent now.

He fans his broad tail, tucks his chin,

and disappears.

About grannysu

storyteller, writer, poet, gardener, countrywoman
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