Blow

Night blows in and bends the pines, scattering bits of moonlight and pine needles. The sound silences the frogs, or more likely drowns them out. The wind is warmer than February wind ought to be, but I don't mind. If dancing trees brush the bright winter stars, who will complain about an absent chill, or even the missing amphibian chorus? The wind will calm in a while, and I'll hear the frogs again. Let the pine trees have their chance to sing.