Potting the inky intoxicant
the inebriated night stumbles to sleep slowly
the silver disc above calligraphs a bright morrow
through the dry foliage beneath the soddy sheets.
As the babble in the branches and bushes silences,
the wild prowl for prey on paws.
When the democracy of the forest sleeps in oblivion
It’s time for the wily predators to pound, for their pound of flesh.