A Little Night Music
Our private orchestra begins to tune
beyond the circle of the smoke and flame.
Beneath the stars, the rising of the moon,
each member has an instrument, a name.
Cicadas buckle ribs and play their tymbals;
their bodies serve to amplify the sound.
Peepers add a chorus, loud as cymbals;
like jingling bells they ornament the ground.
An audience of two, we take our seats,
pull lawn chairs closer to the fire, gaze
in the direction of the first chair’s sweet
constraining sound, a wood owl’s hoot of praise,
surrounded by this strange cacophony,
night voices in discordant harmony.