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.

No matter that leg pads are rubbed

against each other, the song will rise

liltingly on the night in a harmony

that pauses only when a ship's horn

blows while passing under the Blue

Water Bridge.

.

There is no chorus like it anywhere.

I have traveled, but never rediscovered

the choir of insect songs mixed with

night air, carousing an invitation for

companionship or lifting the heart

of a small child before sleep.

.

It is a summer song, captured on a

breeze so warm the curtains almost rise,

almost fall. The house listens. Trees

around the house listen too.

.

Lady A

11-24-15

947p