BY THE FIRE PIT

Far too cold to hear the crickets sing
on this clear November night
with moon encircled by a ring
and stars above so dense and bright

The tic of leaves the only sound
as they fall gently from the trees
to come to rest on frosted ground
while puddle edges start to freeze

On distant road the headlights glow
flickering through the oaks and pines
where pale mushrooms sprout and grow
among the honeysuckle vines

Barred owl inquires about your cook
from beyond a distant ridge
within his secret, hidden nook
a train whistles from the river bridge

Against my side I feel you shiver
as we sit before a dying fire
on a night that's destined to deliver
the first hint of coming warm desire