by G. L. Pettigrew

    The night is still. Still and blood warm. The moon: Full in an India ink sky, a great lidless eye. Shinning like foxfire. Blind. Stars blink-are fireflies; fireflies blink-are dying embers. The voice of the nighthawk (Chordeiles minor) splits the black like a buzzsaw. Moths condense around streetlights. Conoceophalus crickets cry from long grass, from bushes. There is the occasional breath of honeysuckle.

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