Missouri sang to me tonight. She opened her lush, earthy expanses and bellowed a song as if I and the sliver of a moon were her sole audience. The shrill calls of a legion of cicadas crescendoed and waned in unison with the crickets that seemed to surround me. A faint, distant buzz neared my ear until I whished it away. Hovering at the feeder, a hummingbird added the whirring of its wings to the rising cadence while piping its displeasure at my presence. A sudden swish above sent unrecognizable wings sailing into the sky. Still, I sat motionless in the wrought iron chair and listened. A bird high in a tree chirped to the night, and geese from the nearby lake honked their contentment. From a distant hill, a dog barked and I marveled how its muted woof marked time right along with a bullfrog's croak. Eyes closed, I attended closely as an unfamiliar rhythmic zzit, zzit, zzitzzitzzit, zzit, zzit, zzitzzitzzit joined the chorus as if the night itself swished upon a snare. Reluctantly, I opened my eyes and as I rose my chair legs scraped the concrete and hushed the song. At peace, I leaned against my fence and looked across the shadowed hills before me. For me, Missouri's twilight song had ended, but somewhere in a place I cannot see or know, another Missourian listens as the dark deepens and a new song begins.

W. Lee Kincy's work has appeared in the Southeast Missourian, The Vindicator and other publications.

Copyright © 2005. Do not reproduce without permission.


Home Contents