Nocturne

Then sometime following the fade of cerulean to sunset’s acidic orange-tosaffron-to-copper glaze through russet evening down into indigo night—here where day-as-we-know-it ends, begins their boisterous province of might and appetite— feral with longings—a raucous insistence raised against the nocturnal silence this furtive knot of pond-frogs breaks open— guttural throats all ruffle and paradiddle—each kind calling its own kind in its own tongue—listen— a clatter of ball bearings scattered on glass—hinges rusty and rhythmically opening closing opening—claps of the wind-flapping hem of a flag— while distant a tolling sounds its own disquiet into the now-solid night-clot—a human cadence overriding the rut-sounds—its bronze increments, stern and precise, report a condition we imagine higher in the hierarchy, further along the ascent—true—but isn’t it also true we are dredged from the same mud, endowed with the same count of appendages, both with two eyes, two nostrils, one jaw on a forwardfacing face atop a tailless torso which, but for size and upright posture, we also share—but for— ah, there’s the clue—but for the skew of imagination, the plague of ambition, the burden of frontal cortex bloat marking us incommensurate with these night-breaching creatures sounding their discourse on claims and survival— no further agenda—believe me—no dissertations on matter and spirit, debates over rights and refusals—no country beyond the pond to fear or envy—