Crickets fiddling their wings for mates,
As dusk descends upon the fields
And fills the woods, throbbing with deep summer.
The dark is a crowded place,
A thousand voices to the night,
Yours close by, curious and kind
As in the best of hours that never last,
The yellow young moon high up and fuzzy
Through the smoke from the fires in the west,
Our brief time dwindling by the day,
Listening to the songs that rock us to sleep,
The heaven we inherit approaching.
—with two lines from a poem by Tracy K.Smith
