Nighttime is full of creepy
night crawlers, fireflies blinking
ghostly lanterns, the
lakeshore silent as deer
a realm of bullfrogs
burping across the calm
trout splashing on the surface.
Loons linger with calls.
Draped within a blanket by
the campfire, my son tumbling
through dreams
Polaris brighter than usual,
our canoe by a maple.
Once I was that little boy.
© Richard L. Provencher
