Edges

I am drawn toward the edge of day.
The smell of dam, wet ground, air
settling the creatures of day to sleep
and the creatures of night to waken.
The sound of crickets, frogs, the whip-o-will.
Sweet sounds of childhood,
triggering memories long gone by
river swims, gas lights, cold and snuggling down
behind the wool blankets cover.
Listening, ever listening to the sounds
of night, of family and friends playing.
Maybe its because my dad
made us listen and pick out
the voices of the night birds
or that we talked with them,
or maybe its from camp and
watching the lights surround the lake
and starting our own fire light
to sing, to gather, to tell stories
well into the dark.
The communion with night still beckons me
to come and listen at its door.
Enjoying all it has to offer,
even if it is in singing endings
of all that has been in today and past.