Chirrup chorus at night. What are they called, anyway? Crickets?
Danish voices, low, from a balcony without lights, only candles.
Crunch, crunch, flip flops navigating through the dark.
Light? The moon. She’s full.
Engines roll, growling, low.
Hammer, hammer, hammer! Will the power come back on?
A troupe of children laughing, or wait… is that one woman?
Again the motor rolls, it rolls, it rolls.
Chirp, chirp, chirp, chirp. He expresses himself from the trees.