The Rookery

The Rookery

A cold wind descends.
Moonlight trembles
on the water,
reflecting my
regrets.

The dog like a stone
in darkness sits,
melding into trees
no breeze can dare
betray.

Leaves crackle softly
under feet, my neat
plans scatter
to the sound.

We wait.

Soon, like phantoms
they descend, ballerina
light one moonlit
night, haunting
Egret Lake
at the Bullfrogs' Ball

The sound of pterodactyls
grocking, black legs walking
white wings, sharp beaks
in bleakest fall,
all is egret white.

On its silent perch
one lone blue heron
sits a silent sentinel
a messenger from Hell
Old Grim, himself
to tell us all a story
of the untold ages,
of how the feathers and
their fathers from
the spent volcano
rose again.

Listen closely to the
sound of feathers on
the air, watch the landings,
see the sights
at the Bullfrogs' Ball.

Every evening you can
find them, rattling sabers
telling tales, phantoms
riding on the wind
at the Bullfrongs' Ball.