The late hours of the night are for poets,

frogs, bats and nocturnal birds,

some who fill pages with poems,

pensive and rotund,

while others combine symphonically

with whistles, tweets, ribbits, clicks and croaks,

unlike the cacophony of the city

erupting on the traffic lanes at dawn,

when lucid thoughts and imagination cease,

and musicians and bards alike decamp

with the first sunlight

from night’s sweetest hours

in tranquil sleep and withdrawn dreamily

from the bustling day world’s profanity.