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

R L Raymond
