Ode to a Late Winter’s Eve

Standing in the darkness of a late winter’s eve, a silver sliver of a fingernail lights the charcoal sky, the sound of a southern breeze whistling past my ears.

In the near-distance, I can hear frog song coming from the warming pond, the hoppers awakening from their winter slumbers.

Through the inky silence, I hear nature’s music, the gentle sound of the evening breeze playing with chimes, her only voice, it’s song now mine to cherish.

Further still, deeper in the night’s hands, a train whistle screeches, moaning it’s sad, lonely refrain as if looking for a home or, at least, a brief respite from it’s travels.