The night seems unusually
eerie.
Frantic crickets, confused
by the
entrapment of fireflies,
are rubbing their legs
together making
wild chirping sounds.
From the great oak tree,
Spanish moss
swings to and fro in the
night winds.
Caught in the pockets of the
moss,
fireflies move about
like tiny ghost lights
looking for freedom.
Blinking on and off, wings
flitting rapidly,
with no way out, they hover
within
their trap.
“Whoo,” said an owl as he
wrapped his talons
around a branch of the oak,
“whoo.”
Being the wise bird,
that we all have been told
he is,
he raised one leg, extended
his claws
and tore the moss about him
to shreds.
The fireflies escape.
A single string of blinking
lights
rise toward the moon,
seeming to fade in its
brightness.
The crickets cease their
chirping, at ease
once more.
From the great old oak tree
hangs Spanish moss,
with holes
in its pockets.
