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.
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Author:
rrodriguez (
Offline) - Published: May 26th, 2025 18:05
- Comment from author about the poem: My house is in the woods, and around 7:30 pm, you start hearing the coquis singing as it gets darker.
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 4
- Users favorite of this poem: Cheeky Missy, sorenbarrett
Offline)
Comments2
This speaks to me as I love the sound of the frogs be they in the pond, stream or trees. Periodically I have one that resides in my bathroom and sings from time to time. They are a familiar voice and the chorus from the pond below sing in harmony some like drums, other tenor and yet others soprano. Great write
You say, "Great write"? Just reading your description of the frogs’ sound—from the pond, stream, or trees—I realize that this is a poem in itself. This comment can be woven into verse, and now, this is a great write. I read your words, and I am already writing a poem in my head. Thank you for your poetic comment; I appreciate your words of encouragement.
Singing writing is the best writing🙏🏻🕊️
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