The frogs are echoing from God
Knows where; the new moon is
Here to be missed, and it has rained.
The sky is blank overhead.
It's a navy blue hour,
Lit more by the apartments'
Lamps than anything above
Us and the twinkling blades of grass.
The glittering water is almost asleep,
Softly shifting; planes above
Hum toward TPA,
The city a milky way below.
We stroll the pre-dewed lawns,
One last visit for the night.
On the grass not far from the path
Are groups of little dark spots.
Each one of those tiny shadows
Is a precious friend nestling
Back their sleeping, carbuncled faces,
Resting the white curves of their eyelids.
Tag: evening
Last Sunday
In the evening the great grey sail is drawn;
Now, Tampa, the rains are beginning to pour.
I hear it thump over the HVAC's yawn
And the jammed traffic from Raymond James' door.
I heard the Bucs won and the final score
Was forty-to-something, though who they played
I don't know; usually there's fans galore
For any visitors, but today I made
My way to work with the game underway.
The rain has given way to blackness, laid
Upon our hut of lights and slow decay.
As easy a Sunday as any here,
Albeit the last Sunday of the year.
Ducks on the Bridge
The evening breezes tossed our hair about
As we approached the wooden bridge's gate.
On the handrails four of our friends were couched,
Enjoying an eminent perch out late.
But when we sidled up to them to scout,
They shifted around. Though we hoped they'd wait,
George decided he would fly; and his flaps
Peppered his adjacent brothers with slaps.
Percy and Norm were standing beside him
As he opened his wings, readying flight.
They seemed bewildered, though not quite frightened;
I saw Norm raise his crest, though it was slight.
They sat with Marble after abiding
Their brother's barrage of blows feather-light.
At last these three lay down in settled ease;
We left them to sleep with the midnight breeze.
A place for my poems 