I sense the night singing,
pulsing in its cricket-rattle hum.
The corner streetlight frames its noir
shot amidst a movie set of houses,
pickup truck bed in shadow,
For Sale sign in a yard gone dark,
the maples and oaks, sentinels in
communication, leaves trembling
with vague sensation while
the power line poles are
slim imposters, listening in–
having been trees once,
they miss the gossip.

Jef Leisgang, Fort Atkinson, responds to writing that reveals the wonder and mystery of the everyday. He manages a bookstore on Madison’s East Side, and became a member of the Wisconsin Fellowship of Poets last year.