I witness the pond tonight:
the ghostly heron drifts
and the moon lifts
its skirt to provoke the toads.

They’re rejoicing
about having bodies that make sound;
they’re worshiping
the moon’s glowing pumps.

A nightingale parts the evening fog with its beak and sings.

It is lamenting,
to the slugs juicing up the stone,
to the spiders dangling like jewel pendants 
from each mossy bough,

And to the all the honored guests at this elegant party.