Warm and sweet as clover honey

Nighthawks in the sky

Cotton clouds silently fly

Moths do their Jubilee
under street lights

Blind Joe Death plays twelve string

Whip-poor-will calls
collect

But no one is home

Far off lightning clashes
without grumbles

As far off as Tennessee
I would say

Coyotes howl at the rising moon

No mosquitoes tonight . . .

Paradise . . .