Sitting not so late at night
in my worn reclining chair,
moon through the window shining bright,
new home settling here and there.

Cool spring air comes through the screen
embracing this old southern man
with familiar scents and sounds unseen
soothing me as it, only, can.

The radio is turned down low
with oldies from my days of youth
before I saw first forest grow,
before I'd learned a single truth.

But the years first whippoorwill
is crying out for a spring fling
near the top of the front hill.
He'll flutter through the night and sing.

And the privet hedge is in full bloom
spreading musk to my big nose
while I sit in this dim lit room
as dying fire's coals pop and glow.

With eyes closed i soak all in
the scents, the sounds, the atmosphere.
Then just before the dreams begin
I thank god that I'm still here.