I hear this evening moment’s hush:
no breeze beneath the canopy—
not the curled leaf,
not the moist air clinging to the trees.
The night holds its breath.
Through the window, I see no stars,
just the silhouettes of dark tree branches
curled into each other.
Then—
a soft yet piercing pitch,
like the sharp pluck of a string.
Coquí,
Coquí, Coquí.
Again and again.
It does not stop,
rhythmic yet untamed.
Like droplets sliding off palm leaves,
its sound trembles against the stillness of the night.
I stop my writing with it, listening.
The silence is unmuted,
and something in me
urges me to write—
and my writing begins to sing.