The Weaver Watches the Night

Newborns sprout at midnight. They unfold their tendrils,

Tilt their opening faces to the moon

And listen. A small stir somewhere in the dark,

A bird perhaps, or a cricket restless for morning. 

 

Those of us who watch are held by the silence,

Pinned to a gentle conspiracy,

Knowing all, and saying nothing. 

 

Then a frog trills, sharp and clear. The darkness

Alerts, waits and is silent. The frog sings

Out again, is silent, then

Rings out, rises and sings till the moon thrills and shakes

And the leaves tremble with it. 

 

Now the tiny dragon, watching still,

Twirls his tail, hugs the wall, and hides.