Past the soft tones of the wind chimes
A late flying hawk calls out unseen,
Its voice borne off to the northeast,
Diminishing into the rising night.
Further on, walking away from the twilight,
Some frogs in the soggy meadow
Sing cheerily to the lowering sky
And in the west beyond the jagged fir hills
Still persists a trace of fading light
A sweep of turquoise beneath the purple black
Brow of clouds.
Beyond the stiff and spiky branches of the cottonwoods
Half illuminated January moon risen and
Briefly free, sheds pure and silver light,
Reflected in myriad puddles and clinging droplets.
A world of grey and darker grey and black
Of the westerly breeze sounding like rushing water
In the lofty firs mingled with the purling
Of the tumbling creek.
With moonlight now gone
All that remains is the sweet resinous scent of wood smoke
Walking further, to where the huge firs rise from a carpet
Of the deepest greenest moss, pure and soft,
But now in total darkness it is a bottomless abyss
And the rain returns, pattering tentatively at first,
Then pelting in the rising wind which washes
In rolling waves through the fir boughs, high overhead,
Like surf upon the belly of the scudding clouds.
The happy frogs sing.