Phantoms Of The Moon
Approaching the end of the day,
shifting shadows scurry away;
while cobalt skies morph into grey.
Scarlet and crimson rivers run,
as red bleeds from a dying sun;
twilight's defeated; dusk has won.
Buzzing vampires that like to bite,
mosquitoes, usher in the night;
their taste for blood, fueling flight.
By stridulating all night long,
a cricket chirps a high-pitched song;
calling for a mate, loud and strong.
Tickling them till they softly purr,
a brisk breeze sets the leaves to stir,
laughing with the wind: as it were.
And an evening chill cools the air
as unblinking eyes start to stare;
peeking from shadows everywhere.
While sounds and demons widely strewn,
are merely phantoms of the moon;
or the haunting call: of a loon.
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