The lazy quiet of a summer afternoon
has given way to a magnificent nocturnal symphony.
Our feathered friends have long gone to roost,
a sturdy tree limb offering them repose.
It is twilight, that magical time
not quite day, not quite night.
The golden rays of the sun slowly slipping
below a tree lined horizon,
the super moon not quite ready to show his cratered face.
A doe and two dappled fawns
graze peacefully at the edge of the pond.
A few hungry fish break the liquid mirror surface
to catch their evening meal.
The darkening waters are the sounding board
for the guttural conversations of the bullfrogs,
the trees, alive with the myriad songs of the peepers.
I hear murmurs and laughter in the dark,
they echo across the pond.
Others like myself
enjoying the music of the night.
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