It's not the shrill cry
I thought it would be
nor the great, crackling flame
escaping into the universe
(the soul leaving the body)
Rather it's the mute-green frogs
idle by the pond all afternoon,
the humidity which hasn't broken
for several weeks, it's the moths,
hundreds of them, climbing the bark of
scrub oak and fluttering there like
white, paper leaves all night
(too quiet to hear)