Tropical climes.

The last song hits the evening,

Sudden sound alone in the fading light.

Darkness comes soon in these parts.

In seconds day has turned to night

And the sleep calls fade off to the

lush green jungle, screeching song, plain,

Sheltering in the night noises, sight

Hidden till the sun rises again.

 

And then!

Alive are the trees with the calling,

The chatter, like women who wash

Down at the river, pounding, stalling,

Fending off the heat, babies cling,

A million tiny creatures, moist falling,

And the birds.

Always the birds.

 

Catherine Broughton