Night draws a veil, fold upon fold, gathered to dim the light, to make the moon an uncertain brightness that moves west while growing ever more vague. The marbled sky is etched by the mulberry twigs which soon will vanish among dense foliage. Cooling house timbers crack like knuckles, the sharp sound snaps the silence which quickly returns, deeper for the interruption. Then it yields once more, for a moment, to the high chirp of a night bird who calls four times, five times, each call fainter as it flies north, to be lost in the forest. Again, silence reclaims the pale world. Hours have passed and not a sound from the frogs. Every breath is dense with dampness, and the silent, sleeping town seems as though it has been drowned in the ghost of a lake and is lost, never to be rediscovered.
( Sunday Verse )
( Sunday Verse )