The night whistles as it has in these hills for ages.
It whistles and echoes the endless sound
Of tree frogs and crickets in the thicket,
Of the distant police sirens' call
Intruding upon an under-aged drinking party
Far off into the magical woodlands.
The tone scatters out into the moonlit night,
Hiding behind mossy logs or large wet rocks,
Or running of into the forest until morning.
It swirls in the breeze and off between the branches
Of blossoming trees, still scarce enough
That the sound of their rattling appendages rolls on un-muffled.
It has a rhythm to it, if you think it does.
The whistle skips along the forest floor
Like the many footsteps of a deer herd in migration.
It lacks a rhythm, where ever that rhythm is not heard.
It is the song of the here and now, eternal and ageless.
It's a song that will be heard for as many generations
As this forest manages to survive,
The echoing yelp of a hundred coyotes
Howling in harmony at the silvery full moon.