With a bowl of rhubarb
crumble and cup of chili
cocoa the Widow Wyile sits
her silver haired self
on the silvered wood
of her friendly giant chair
on her silvery front deck
beneath a silver
evening sky lit on the northern
edge in the faintest yellow
fading to silver blue
through the still emergent ash
leaves danced by the cool moist air
richly suffused with lilac, damp earth,
and green effusion of growing plant beings
in the pond across the road
in the puddles behind the shed
the peepers
chirp peep peep chirp with much ado
creating congregational evening sound
concerto interspersed now and again
by a trill thrill trill
and by bullfrog burbles
sounds that mark passing flourishes
depths
of observation

the birds have sung their goodnights
and as the light dims
the evening stillness expands
punctuated only by sound streams of
fast rolling rubber tires
the hum of motors and air displaced
by car chassis
suddenly one small bird speeds by
calling insistently
yes yes yes
I’m on my way
and then the evening concerto
continues its lullaby