Echoing crickets call under the starry field;
      more points of inspiration fill this sky then any man can count,
           some brighter, some imperfectly complete.

Searching, one leathery hunter flaps by me,
      snatching at treasures fluttering near my writing light;
            life makes death, so that death preserves life.

Full yellow moon winking at our tainted world
      threw a hearty pine, a green silhouette, cutout against the sky;
          a photographer’s masterpiece, no camera in sight.

You don’t get true night like these at home;
       gunshots and freeways for your ears, followed by fireworks,
             three stars and a nice thick smog for your eyes,
            
Captivated beneath this speckled dome,
      trying desperately to reach the faultless achievement,
          I stand here on this, my cut down tree, fighting.

And tomorrow I go home, thank god.