Fireflies
in the doorway crack
between June and July
imagine they're stars
and by and by
everything that isn't ground
is sky.

Whippoorwill
in the branch beyond
my window sill
recounts the news
of the day until
the evening falls, and all the world
is still.




Cacophony
of deepest thought
from tree to tree
and frog to frog
presumably
though they make sure it's gibberish
to me.




Porcupine
invites me with him
out to dine
on plastic, wood, it's all quite fine
for dinner, but I'd rather choose
the wine.




Otters dart
as if their pond
were beating heart
of nature's plan to each impart
a canvas upon which to ply
his art.