Twilight quivers overhead
flies its kites—the stars—
above trees     then hangs
fireflies from oak and ash
there to burn their rounded
torsos like so many topaz
the spring equinox’s answer
to winter solstice’s
glittering ornaments.
As sky sings its aria
of cloud and wind
on one branch a fox rests
flattened like a river bank
after a flood.  Only his tail—
white-tipped—rocks back
              and forth like foam            
                            at the crest of waves.