again our eyes turn to stars’ soft rhythm,
rippling leaves responding to barest wind,
crickets’ sly castanets urging schism
through dark fields and forests. Why don’t we mind
brash woodpecker’s syncopated tapping,
stubborn rebel drummer, beak mining dead
oak at midnight? Will our lake’s tongues lapping
thick-lipped shore disturb our sleep, make us dread
growing flood of fireflies at our tent’s screen
curtain, portenders to some massive blaze
turning our woods into burning, pristine
rows of ember and ash? Will smoke’s rash maze
blind our way of escape? Do these extreme
fates await us, love? Do we merely dream?
Roger Armbrust
August 30, 2010
