The Bird’s Song

The bird’s song sleeps.
The cicadas cacophonous chatter –
so loud you might miss it.
They sing in intervals incessant.
What are they chanting?
To whom do they call?
The unison ceasing for the orchestra
to catch their breath.
Is there a cicada conductor?
But then who composed?
The window unit buzzes, too –
or bleeps, blabbering nonsense,
a heckler in the hall.

The sun’s light sleeps.
The moon’s glow glimmers –
A ring of refracted light
revels in the clouds,
staying but always leaving.
What is it showing?
For whom – these millions on earth –
does it shine?
Safely shrouded some hides
to rest tonight.
Is it weary?
But where does it go?
The headlights blink, too –
Or blare, blinding, speeding by,
an intruder in the bedroom.

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