Night Song

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.