.
The chorus is in chaos.
I lie awake and listen
to the frogs
across the wetlands –
their indiscreet cacophony,
their bald discordant din
of tuneless bass
and baritones,
and one quite well-intentioned
adolescent squork.
.
Then comes Gaia
dressed as Maestro
waving her baton
in phosphorescent
ups and downs
until the chorus
is entranced
with “con amore”
in an ocean
of full moons.
And finally it’s adagio
adagio…
adagio…
that fades
to midnight indigo.
.
And then one last harumph
and off to sleep.
.
© 2017 Betty Hayes Albright
.