If the noises of feet
rustling in grass
were amplified
and cricket's tones
were slowed,
it would sound
as children singing
amazing grace around
a campfire ring sound
when moonfilled mists
surround still thicker
smoke trickling
from a smoldering
coalbed that cradles
nimble flames unsure
of whether they’ll waver
much longer, but dancing,
at least, until the voices
finish lingering in mist
and echo back
off the hillsides,
the moon,
or some other source
of light behind
the obscured sky,
returning to tuck
them into the ashes.
By Mr. Keefe Keeley
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