The moon,
yesterday's fool,
wanders,
now rather beaten on one side.
Past her bloom
she glows less bright,
destined to follow her path.
An owl hoots from high
in the bone-white
eucalyptus tree
breaking the silence
repeating, repeating,
to wit, to woo
And then the nightingale,
that seasonal opportunist,
chants from the lower woodlands.
Soft, chirpy bursts
of pure song.
I am the one, choose me,
let me be your destiny.
The owl moves on
her voice comes
from across the hillside,
and mole-crickets
begin their racket.
The ancient songs
of call and response
through the night continue.
Nature holds us lightly
that we may taste freedom
as we pound our paths
to home.
