The sun settles, and the dark sky fills with so many stars
that they must have been just waiting for us. Chilly air
settles around the fragile walls, the net of branches overhead,
the fruits shaken and resting. Conversation pauses,
faces turned upward. One late-to-leave whip-poor-will calls,
then falls silent, a wise prayer for safety as a barred owl
sails the air. Sukkot. Snuggling close, well wrapped,
we listen, until the small crackles and rustles coalesce
around crickets praying: one wing scraping the other,
ancient music for night hope. We blink the dew from our
eyelashes, and whisper to the bright moon: Barukh, Barukh,
Barukh.
that they must have been just waiting for us. Chilly air
settles around the fragile walls, the net of branches overhead,
the fruits shaken and resting. Conversation pauses,
faces turned upward. One late-to-leave whip-poor-will calls,
then falls silent, a wise prayer for safety as a barred owl
sails the air. Sukkot. Snuggling close, well wrapped,
we listen, until the small crackles and rustles coalesce
around crickets praying: one wing scraping the other,
ancient music for night hope. We blink the dew from our
eyelashes, and whisper to the bright moon: Barukh, Barukh,
Barukh.
