Thrasher's Call

They call it “light pollution”, that hazy cloud of streetlights, stoplights, sidewalks, homes; photon runoff, a glowing dome, a luminous din of light, whose loud anthropocenic murmur crowds out starlight’s song, those piercing tones are muddled in the soupy drone of streetlight beacons against night’s shroud; but I can’t help but see in these man-made blooming lights a canopy of lamp-post trees, lighthouses for the sidewalk seas, beacons bright’ning stormy nights, and a warming hearth for nyctal freeze.