Suburban hum
Of air conditioners
Mundane protests
From the crackling street lamps.
Beyond the first layer of darkness
The one where Suburbia lie,
Fall through thick cover of nocturne,
Slice away at its canvas.
And you will find the night.
Transcending hums of vain suburbans,
Far after the buzzing of bug lamps.
Where the only sounds
Are night breathing.
Still enough to hear those
Who slumber neath synthetic comforters.
Yet alive with the chirrups
And squeaks and calls
Of those who own this stillness.
The little beetles rustling round,
The sleek spiders, light from the stars illuminating
Their bodies of work, let it bask in the glistening of the moon.
And the owls who brood after dark, who call neverendingly "who?"
The stars within grasp of the rooftops,
And the grass that sparkles with dew,
The dainty, yet plump globules casting ethereal white light about the lawn.
Mourning dove calls, as they drift into bird-sleep,
The bats that dart and whizz and
Catch mouthfuls of twinkling, glimmering stars.
On the water, ducks bob and weave, their feathers misted with Night.
A deep, and bright moon casts itself upon water,
Admiring its image, no doubt.
Crickets play to please the night spirits,
Whose wandering ways bring the blessed Night breeze.
The gentle fingers of which, blow through the few brave open windows.
This secret rustle in the moonlit curtains,
Of the blissfully sleeping ones.
But all too soon,
Magic disperses.
Rabbits appear and the owls call their final inquisitions.
Dew drops cast the human call of sunrise and burst into the fiery sun-rainbow.
The layers of darkness are shed,
To reveal only the hums once again.
Surface into Suburbia now, again.
Night has crept away.
Leaving behind only evaporations
Of its previous adventures and accounts.
Careful to leave no true trace,
To let no humans figure out
The magic held within
When street lamps buzz and flicker,
And the clock ticks by more slowly.
When the breeze checks in on those who sleep.
