Just Another Saturday Night

A wood thrush sings mellow evening prayers

in the darkening hollow that leads from my house

to the little creek we call Bucket Run.

It is almost dark on the run, and yet

higher up on the ridge the last rays of day

still light the tips of spring-green leaves,

and the cardinal calls his bright cheer-cheer-cheer.

A towhee rustles dry leaves I have yet to rake

from beneath red-gold spirea bushes,

and deep in the woods a pileated woodpecker

drums against a hollow oak.

I watch the moon creep over the horizon,

white-gold against tree silhouettes.

Inch by inch she rises, her gold turning silver

by some secret alchemy or is it just

another trick nature plays on my eyes?

Dusk settles on the garden where the sprinkler

still hisses, sending life to thirsty roots.

The chickens cluck quietly as they settle on their roost,

jostling each other for the choicest space.

One more day with its drama of the dead mouse

left at the door, the crows stealing the dogs’ food,

and minor altercations at the bird feeder

is coming to a close.

Somewhere, people sit in dark theaters to watch

Hollywood dramas or maybe see a play.

Restaurants fill with voices, clinking glassware and rattling silver

while in some performance hall a crowd listens

to an old-time band playing Mockingbird.

Here, only the whippoorwill

provides the evening concert

where we have the front-row seats.

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About grannysu

storyteller, writer, poet, gardener, countrywoman
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