The Park, always polite but punctual,
sweeps its last human visitors onto the sidewalk.
A bit bewildered, we head home, unaware
of the trees singing soft green lullabies
as they brush out each other's branches
with their tender twig-fingers.

The busy clans of tree-dwellers
stop their bird-bickering and squirrel-squabbling,
get about the business of closing up shop.
How industrious they all are working together,
beak and paw, wing and jaw,
rolling back the grass like a big tarp,
tucking every little violet and toadstool
in for the night.

Thistleheads and sturdy Prairie grasses
reach up, catch the hem of dark,
pull it down like an old blanket, tattered and torn,
for the spiders to mend.
Soon, all is hushed,
nimble muskrats and resident raccoons
the only ones left with a job to do:
embossing the first-to-be-seen
evening stars with new silver threads.


© by Gay Guard-Chamberlin.
Used with the author’s permission.