Crickets. Birds. The babbling brook.
A clear night sky, the moon overlooks.
An ever so gently, the owl’s song wafts in the breeze.
The crickets conducting a symphony for me.
But out in the night, beyond the hawks twitter,
The black canvas is ignited, with gold sparks of glitter.
The fireflies are dancing, to the song of cricket chirps.
The song of the wind waving, blowing the flowers in the dirt.
In depth I watch the sparks perform, their flit of night ballet.
They keep in time to the barn owls tune, in pristine and neat valet.
But morning comes too early, and the fireflies cease their stride.
But when night falls, they’ll play again; the glitter of the night.