In the pale light
of a canvas tent dawn,
cicadas kazoo
the last verses of their camp song,
that tinnitus of summer.
Hidden in beds of thin grass,
crickets whistle
their own tinny hymn,
and out by the pond
amorous tree frogs blurt
wet advances too late now
for evening love.
In the dim air,
dashes of new sun backlight
leftover brown bats catching
the last slow mosquitoes,
while mockingirds breaking
their full moon fast
fly from feeder
to field to feeder.
A redwing cries;
a woodpecker tattoos
the trunk of a water oak.
Hummingbirds buzz
the butterfly bush.
Jays puncture the air,
and in the oldest pecan tree,
two squirrels run
spiraled wind sprints,
risking the attention
of the new puppy
sleeping at the feet
of a woman who sings
to meet the morning.
by Anne McCrady
appears in Letting Myself In and Her Texas