Hear it, feel it! Above the live oak
and Spanish moss, above their
gnarled, grasping canopies, the
night wind flies savage and free.
Without constraint or direction
it inhales, blows, flings about at will,
tearing wantonly at primeval fears.
And higher yet, to the east there's a
cooper moon rising sinisterly, lighting
the way for wary night hunters.
Is it the howling of their hounds, or
the howling of that feral wind, or
something more I hear?
Yes, something more, I fear.

Such an eerie night on the bayou,
where fireflies pulse phosphor green,
dangling, dancing like marionettes
above jutting cypress knees. Along
the farthest bank, tip-toeing in mire,
a pale night-heron walks as a ghost,
dropping its head to strike, to give
final croak to some hapless frog.
Were crows awake on such a night
they'd caw and clamor and sidle up
to each other to see which could
provide the most reassurance
against such a dreadful night.
Latch every door, shutter every
window, light every candle!
The night wind is on the prowl!

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