At 8PM the frogs shall scream
to mark the rising of the moon
and evening winds will hum inside
a lullaby of fading light.

Beyond the hills their golden glow
becomes a treasure slept upon:
It grows beyond amphibian sight
in melodies of broken white.

At 10PM the slopes fall still
when darkness strikes their ragged peaks
as broken flames take dancing flights
in harmony with fallen nights.

Beyond the ponds their shadows leap
to swallow dreams of colored days
and fall cold-bloodily in fright
from all the hunger darkness hides.

At 12AM our silence roars
where breezes will not carry scents.
Forsaken souls are burning bright
and waiting on the other side

- across the hidden hilltop pond -