by Martin Elster

The katydids all katydid,
On twigs of sycamores and birches,
   On perches
Amid the leaves of oak and aspen,
Like souls that briefly breathe, feet graspin’
The branches of these fleeting days
That will evaporate like haze,
Well-hid on perches, raspin’.

Each pulse that pierces through the dark,
    Each spark
Links this arboreal world to all.
    Each call,
When merged with all the other trills,
    Rings hills.
Their predetermined insect wills,
Like shooting stars, light up night’s gloom
And touch the glow of Cygnus’ plume.
Each spark, each call rings hills.