Within

pitch dark
where stars whiten
at the death —albeit short-lived— 
of the streetlamp
cycle-timed for conservation 
frogs creak and croak

he hears them 
   echoed
      reflected 
         deflected
from neighbouring
houses with windows
open to the calm evening air 
that carries the din

there are no thieves conspiring 
or ne’er-do-wells whispering plans 
for mischief

only frogs
those night-sounds that bounce
against constructions and preconceptions