The cooling off of trees,
and leaves come off in
sheaves too from limbs,
is an orchestra pretending
It, nestled in the silence
of temperature's embrace
cries nightly, plainly, in
the dark. Spread out the
skin of the night.
Repeating it retreats in
delight at having conveyed
one's conceits from a day
past. It moves slowly with
only the shoes and their
tap-tap, on the concrete, tap
-tap. Tap-tap tap-. Great
repast, or the memory of
it.
