Outside beyond the stretch of window’s light,
This night has sutured leaves on limbs of trees
Where darkness claims the woods for its domain.
There fireflies strive to navigate that maze
So silent while cicadas wait their turn
To form their chorus round our house again.
At nearly eighty now, I may not hear
Them sing to me again as they first did,
But I sit here and climb that hill once more
Where I first saw their husks on oaken bark
Devoid of songs they sang all summer long.
Now silence here without one whippoorwill
Reminds me soon I’ll rest upon that hill.