The night falls – its winds still elude unto visions of misconceived footmen lining each front, and yet – the cricket sings.
As Babylon runs in its rivers, weeping wet, still can I not see – nor the olive groves of Galilee, nor the seas of all Being and enchantments. These most assuredly lie somewhere between now and the third versicle of the Song of Songs.
The wind shall growl, the Watchman shall sit – until the cricket leaps a perfect fifth, perhaps a minor sixth
(to a comely bass).
Somewhere Between Now And The Third Versicle
(© written elsewhere by me, Aug. 19, 2018)