I am under our dark blanket filled with a million stars,
My eyes of wonder, gazing at the unknown.
A being rocked by the quiet harmony of waters that are
Gently, lapping at the hull of an old catamaran.
On a trampoline, with no spring, laying quietly, waiting sleep,
As night has stolen the laughter of day.
Now a haunting movement begins,
Sounds of the night envelop me.
Beginning slowly, a chorus of peepers play in the weeds.
Quiet is soon filled with their deafening din of their enthusiasm.
The night progresses, the second movement now,
Violins played by loons echo melodiously across the pond.
An invisible hand lowers, the orchestra becomes muted,
The brilliant stars fade as my mind's eye closes.
The peace flows around me....
Aware, or am I, conscious of a distant base, a lone voice,
A horned owl calls out from the hill.
I wake to the noise of nothing,
It is so unbelievably still, so unbelievably dark.
A dark punctuated only by the millions of miniscule lights,
In the blanket of my world.
At this hour the lights are different, unfamiliar, characters playing in an ancient riddle.
But somehow, I am part of them, and they--with me.
Cold reaches through my sleeping bag,
I curl into a ball.
Moist cold air,
Dew on my bed.
The stars twinkle fades,
Mist rises in the pallor, of a beginning day.
A new sound emerges, thoughtfully, slowly,
Is it a plodding of a moose through nearby rushes,
Or maybe, with the concert over,
It is the usher, telling me it’s time to go inside.