The Space Between

By Joseph Hesch

The high-pitched metronomic peeping

 of the frogs ceases,

though isn’t yet replaced by

the arias and white-noise cheeping

of the robins, wrens and flickers.

Before the evening performance

curtain of mist falls on the water

and the dawn’s footlights know enough

to glow, there exists

but a mere moment where nature rests.

It’s as if the new day is coiled,

waiting to explode in light, hiss in heat,

holding back its grand entrance

to increase the tension in an audience

of flower, animal, and man.

I often wake during that instant,

my senses empty of the outside and

no longer full of the dark imaginings

of the inside, and I wonder

for that same moment,

have I crossed over?

It's such a hopeful thing, this.