The Night Belongs to Harry

What happens when you go to sleep.

Every morning I sit on my perch

On the porch

To take in the cool morning air and observe

The debris of the battles of the night.

The mangled, nacel wings of a tondo,

That failed to swerve or parry in flight,

That went on to lose the fight of his life,

In the porch of a Japanese condo.

To the sound of the caw of the crows

And the high pitched chirruping of a thousand cicadas,

I can see that the night belonged to Harry,

A powerful force let loose in nature's larda.

Harry doesn’t live here,

He just comes in the night,

To weave his web

Of a thousand strands.

And Harry doesn’t leave here

Until he’s won the fight,

If it takes all night,

To weave and deceive

With his gossamer kumonoso plans.

Stretched and fine tuned

To perfect pitch

With a hair trigger touch,

Harry waits for the imprudent tondo.

He strikes like lightening

Deathly, fatal, awful and frightening,

The prey will make for one glorious hondo.

The night belongs to Harry.