The Orchard Moth
When the sun has gone to rest,
And the moon rears her shining crest,
The night moth courts in orchard glade,
To the screech owl's wavering serenade.
Through cycles the sycamore lifted its head,
Above savage and beast with stealthy feet,
Now it stands by the old woodshed,
And serves to cure the summer meat.
The screech owl screeches when courting,
Because it's the best he can do,
If you couldn't court without screeching,
Why then, I guess you'd screech too.