Where They, and the whippoorwill, do warble up above neath waning, turpentine moonshine those evensongs I long to be a part thereof —to ever trill their twilit shrills of naught but love. Nighttime madrigals I scrawl, imbibed on mulled wine —honeyed, and berried, my varied arbor drought. My dripping ink intones hollowed hymns —pantomime. Far from-like the star-bright psalms the storied Songbirds wrought. Much and more, Their call is all I've sought —berceuses crooned to lull the hart and to Their Will my heart align. My mind does dance mine eyes do tire yet my limbs heed the chants to be amongst that moonlit Choir neath waxing, turpentine, moonshine.