Sluggish crickets chirping in the meadow,
slowing cadence in the dark.
Crunching footsteps in the woodland,
doe or buck in crusty leaves.
Soft rustling through front-yard asters,
stealthy foraging while other sleep.
Great horned owls’ courtship concert
echoing across the frosted field.
Breezes sighing through bare branches,
whispers of the coming chill.
The season’s evensong.
November lullaby.
—
Ann Bodling’s poems reflect her close relationship with the natural world. She is a naturalist, a gardener, wife, mother, and grandmother. She has worked most of her adult life in gardens and on farms and lives in rural central-Pennsylvania with her husband, three goats, and four hens.
