An evening of Renaissance winds in a cloistered tent on prairie's edge. As dusk deepens to blue, fireflies rise from prairie fields and grass and tall flowers under cypress. Green pulse on stem of tiger lily, cupped in hand reflecting. Bronze lions watch these moving lights. Whine and throb of ancient pipe and reed. A skirl of dance marks time to the finger-tapped drum. Redwing blackbird in the bower sings counterpoint to sacred chant, while crickets drum in corners. Unbroken consort of recorders. Voices tuned to rhythm and pace of breath. We are still as rapt grass in windless rows. Night's shadow line crawls high behind this brightened stage. Long intertwined counterpoint of melody weaves spirals and leaves in air filled with weaving pulsing light. Long past the blue hour in still twilight lights scatter along the road. These darkened fields full of life turn to rush towards light. All alone in the alien darkness of empty backroads winding past lost hearths, I drive homewards through crowded firefly constellations.
concert lit by fireflies:
Labels: haibun, music, poem