That tree had a
five o’clock shadow
of moss on its face
as the lilting light’s
atomic edge shaved
down its rough neck into
the hours of burgeoning
night. I wonder
if the singing cicadas
through their din and
clatter realized how
close they were? Always
straitening their stance,
straddling a wet leaf
and a soaked twig.
The night cares
not for what we see during
the day’s light and cares
nothing for the translucence
of venous wings that crunch
and dry in death.
