Round as a golden dollar
the moon stretches
into a still-blue sky
at 8:30 pm.
They would hang from the trees
at this time, those dusky times
of day, and their voices
sounded like a song
flowering from their finely balanced
limbs, from the angles they stretched
into, from the fact of belonging
to a tree choir.
I hear them still.
I see their silhouettes.
This time of day recalls the freedom
of children to create harmony on bare trees.