A dog, breathing the moon, breathed in the night,
And a hungry bird, looking askance, took flight.
This happened in a field of tall, sparse grass,
Yellow, green, and wavy like the overpass,
Below which small rodents burrowed their homes
In the soft, humid, and root entangled loam.
You were among them, in the natural night,
Which curved and arced, and flourished in a street light,
That seemed to punctuate its solitude
Searching, ever dim, air ever-renewed.
You turned to ask, in the cold electric fire,
“When, Romeo, will nature tune thy lyre?”