EVENING AT PATERSON

 

 

EVENING AT PATERSON

 

Evening has past through Paterson.

The trees sigh lightly as the heat from the last rays of sunlight disappear.

A lone Plover stood in call to its mate, and upon its return took to wing in chase as if to chastise for its absents.

Egrets, as with the arrival at dawn, skimmed the ever changing  mirrored, shadowy river on return to roost.

Ducks had taken to flight, and flew in the direction of dawn to wait in anticipation of sunrise.

Lights on the horizon begin to appear giving some hint to civilisation.

All is grown silent from human encroachment.

 

The night comes alive.

Frogs begin to call, as do crickets.

A singular moth is drawn to the light through the kitchen window, and continues to brow-beat itself into insect counselling, in the fruitless attempt to die warm by the light that would be its killer.

 

 

There is nothing but ones soul now.

Yet there is everything.

From silhouettes of late birds in flight, to the stillness in the half darkness of the river that is still flowing with life.

To the stars that seem to beat in the night sky.

I feel I am home.