Tonight is quiet with no cicadas singing,

no calls of the whippoorwill. But the woods

are alight with fireflies blinking on, then off,

embracing the air with a magic all their own.

I loved the stately redwoods and tangy smell

of oaks where I came from, but never knew

the ephemeral nature of trees that lose their leaves,

transforming their full regalia into ghostly forms

of gray that open the ground to the whims of air

and snow, while the abundance of living things take

furlough before the flourish of spring jolts them

into another outburst of burgeoning growth.

The moody disposition of water scouring

the creek bed came as a complete surprise.

Sometimes it moves fast, sometimes slow,

Relentless as it grinds ancient rock into sand

While the majesty of lightning criss-crosses the sky

followed by boom, crack and rumble to echo

down the hollows and shake the hills, extolling

the rhapsody and wonder of this place.