At dusk
when man and beast
lie tucked away
in the warmth of bedding
safe from all dangers and enemies
listening drowsily to all the sounds of the night
the pitter-patter of rain on a cool tin roof
I count sounds
I count the sounds of crickets
chirping good night in the meadow
I count the rustle of leaves falling from the oak
I count the sounds an acorn makes
when a careless squirrel knocks it free
I count the time between thunder claps
I count the answers a howling wolf receives
I count the confident hoots of a truimphant owl
On nights when clouds tears drop down to litter the ground beneath them
I dance barefoot in slickened grass
I catch droplets with my tongue
I samba the dark away
Chasing the storm clouds
Capturing the evening glory
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