On the horizon, just there

Atop the willow tree,

Poetry gushes from the orange breast

Of a bluebird from the east.

And as his song sighs westward,

in the small grove below,

Songs of Missouri mosquitoes drone—

Pitching the night black 

To the tune of high strings.

Then woe comes that night

Until darling, fleeting lights

Illuminate the jetted sky

With tears of fireflies.

This symphony of wings 

Dims the dying day

And in subtle delight, 

Applauds the days' blooming night.

 

So does the crickets' violin 

And cicadas' maraca 

Often add to the ensemble 

Of nature's evening nomenclature lull.

He, like a fawnish maestro, 

Calls on the croaking bull frogs

And hooting owls' droll

Pillaging graves for a dead woman's wails 

and a dead man's moans.