Evensong
June 18, 1996
Evensong, the cricket
plays his fiddle leg.
Night crowds me
off my lightless porch.
I cannot see these lines
I scribble.
Almost out of hearing
a catbird mews.
Her soft voice drowned
by the brass blaring
of cicadas.
Tonight the dark
has weight and substance.
Is it time to sleep
yet?