November Poem-A-Day 11

The Picture

Round as a golden dollar

the moon stretches

into a still-blue sky

at 8:30 pm.

They would hang from the trees

at this time, those dusky times

of day, and their voices

sounded like a song

flowering from their finely balanced

limbs, from the angles they stretched

into, from the fact of belonging

to a tree choir.

I hear them still.

I see their silhouettes.

This time of day recalls the freedom

of children to create harmony on bare trees.