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Rated: E · Poetry · Nature · #2229207
Sleeping outside in the warmth of August.
In open air beneath the stars, to try it just one night;
to sleep out back within the yard, the Milky Way in sight.
In fine surround of oak and elm, sans safety of my place,
upon a cot as August air leaves moisture on my face.

There is a crescent of the moon noteworthy in the west;
the daytime heat is fading fast, so this may be a test.
Still, sleeping underneath the stars, I always longed to try;
bereft of roof and inner wall, open to starry sky.

Upon the lake remains the squabble from a flock of geese;
this is the northern latitude, and I have summer’s lease.
As I look to the southern sky from narrow, basic bed,
appears star-pattern Scorpio, with Antares hued red.

Giant shadows of sycamore, arising from the shore!
Tonight, outside this August night, in natural rapport.
The midnight breath of dying zephyr sighing in treetop;
I lie awake o’er cooling sod, lawn greenery my flop.

What is that stirring on the gravel road beyond my cot?
Tonight’s alfresco shuteye stunt is truly what I sought.
Eternity the vault of ceiling speckled by dim flame;
this night I am part of the night, as outside I lay claim.

All through the night cicada chant maintains a constant tone;
immodest harp of cricket song--a long consistent drone.
Her life endures despite the nighttime’s penchant to make pause,
for Mother Nature stays in charge by laying down her laws.

There goes that stirring once again on Aqua access road;
how shall I find my outside peace with inner overload?
One should expect strangeness of sound in nightlong bivouac--
upon concrete some buckeyes fall with their resounding clack.

So now I lay me down to sleep under all Heaven’s eyes,
and I see stars within the yard--no, those are fireflies!
It is my own endeavor here to try and sleep outside,
among the wind and other sounds that in the night abide.

What glorious morn! The color of the sky at daybreak;
there is an aching in my back and I am wide awake.
I fine-tuned my affinity for open air and trees,
but now I enter back inside so I can get some Z’s.

36 Lines
Writer’s Cramp
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