pulsing cicadas
pull me into their rhythm
a hammock of sound

the fall to silence
of tree frogs and cicadas
unmasks the trees' whispers

a moment to savor
eating ice cream by moonlight
in my jammies

I am waiting
for her call out of quiescence
persistent hatchling

within the darkness
the whirring pulse of crickets
entrances me

riding the night air
honeysuckle fills me
for a moment

breathe in the night
that bottomless black reviver
of the new day

Midafternoon. Two nine-year-old boys with hoses, visible
only as silhouettes given the sun's low angle. The light is
as brilliant as the sun is hot, reflecting in the spray of
their water weapons. And then I catch sight of my son's face.

the best thing about
this angle of light
is your glowing smile