Homesick
I think what I miss most
is being able to see the stars;
the milky way glittering like ground glass
strewn over black velvet.
Here, I can see only the very brightest,
arranged in dot to dot pictures
on a flannel grey board.

The streetlights conglomerate
and reflect off the night
creating in the sky an eerie luminance
which hangs above the city
like the wick of a candle.

The constant sound of cars passing
overlap into a subliminal roar,
as the sun baked streets slowly cool
and release their heat into the sultry night.
Even in the deadest hours of darkness,
there is life . . .,
darting here . . .,
and there . . .,
like a cat . . .,
waiting for something to fall.

I miss too, the nights where the only sounds
were the wind whispering through the pines,
crickets chirping and bullfrog pulses,
and the occasional baying hound
in desperate pursuit of unseen prey,
chasing the night by a fragile trail of scent.

The moon shimmering like polished silver
and casting blue shadows in the iridescent light.
And every now and then,
It seemed the world would pause for breath,
and the only sound was a roar of silence.
No wind stirred the leaves as night creatures froze,
the moon was wrapped in a blanket of black,
and there was only dead darkness.

Then the porch swing creaked,
the cloud passed on,and the world once again came to life