Night on the porch. Real darkness.
The rain tries out some rhythms
then shakes its head: “Take five!”
The frogs advertise in the fields for all they’re worth.

I’m not doing much. Vacation.
There’s a blanket, a chair,
the vague dark breath of the sea.
I want to be composing, too: what’s my worth?

Crack the delicate nest of night with porchlight.
You have to break some eggs, et cetera.

When I’m writing, or reading, or working in my apartment,
what I’ll want is to sit in the dark and sing back to these frogs.

***

Thanks to my original publishers at Cascadia Rising Review: https://www.cascadiarisingreview.com/fear-of-missing-out