my sprite-fellow and I rest on the cold, evening lawn.
the large things have gone to sleep,
so she presses her ear to the sky

and unveils the tiny world,
the silvery tinkling of quiet life,
the glittering assemblage of thousands of things

below a disco ball.
flirting, ebrious with seaweed and the joys of movement,
they praise the delicate adornments of the weeping elm,

the pond lilies, the especially brilliant greenness
of the scum this time of year.
the eely sirens move the water and disrupt

the dirty hiding place of bog worms.
blood bulges in the gloating leech’s belly.
these also have their sound.

elsewhere a hound throws its voice,
and my sprite leaps to her feet,
returning the howl and gleefully joining the rhapsody.