By Sara Letourneau

Wind flows through tree limbs,

a river of air brushing

past needles and leaves.

Crickets chirp and serenade

one another, their songs brief and

monotone, the soothing bird songs of dark.

Owl tells his ballad, hooting of

who did this and who did that,

the cadence of his call lighter than rain.

I rarely listen to the night—but don’t we all?

So often do we talk and scream

and fill our houses with our own noise

that we also fill our own heads and forget

to turn ourselves off

so we can open the window and listen

to the orchestra playing outside every night.


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