There were those January nights when
winter wrapped us in its chill, but withdrew
its frequent blanket of clouds, and I
would go outside peering through
the fog of my breath and look
into the sky at the aurora borealis,
watching the electrons dance
on a black scrim dotted with myriad stars.
Years later and miles away I miss
the occasional night shows for they
never play this far south, but I can
most nights walk outside and under
the watchful eye of a star pocked sky,
listen to the oration of the birds
that populate our small wetland,
conversations which I only wish
I could understand, but poetic
in their own odd way with rhythms
and meters that only nature teaches,
and not to species grown deaf to her
as we so sadly have again and again.