The cicadas chirp a lullaby to the night. Their buzzing seems obtrusive at first But grows to be comforting and content. Inside, the tiled floor sits cold with all its rivets and dips. Shutters are locked shut to the windows, Hatches battened down, Giving the impression of the quarters of a ship Sailing through the long, dry grasses of Southern France. In the beige bedroom, I lie on the twin bed, my shoulder leaning against the wall. My friend lies across the room, snoring peacefully. Outside, down the hallway, the fifth bedroom lays vacant. The other three are occupied, their doors shut tightly. The steep, tiled stairs lead the way down to the first floor, Its high ceiling grand but inviting. The two L-shaped couches in the back living room host card boxes From games previously played. These floors are new and wooden. The windows there still show outside, onto the small cracked patio. The kitchen is on the front left side of the house, Cramped but piled with food And giving way to the laundry room with its low, stooped ceiling. The dining room table is cleared off, Its blue tablecloth lit up by the moon that shines bright through the windows. The alcoves in it are in shadow, mysterious and dark. The great front door creaks on its old hinges. Breezes whish through the air, Spreading the smell of overripe fruit from the trees. The cars and table sit on a rough gravel. Through a grove, the pool sits dark. Its sloshing can be heard, a welcoming sound. Five chairs sit under an umbrella, relaxing. A yard of dry grasses stretches until a set of bushes. From the yard, the whole city seems to be seen. All of the narrow streets and alleys and squares of Aix-en-Provence. The mountain of Sainte-Victoire looms in the distance, Standing where it can just be seen. Returning through the small grove, the house is sleepy and tired. The shutters are closed and the windows on the first floor are empty and dark Even as the moon shines on the front of the house. The old, worn stone is cool to the touch in the dry night. Back in bed, I lay under the blanket, chilly And think of the house perched on its hill Sleeping under the canopy of night. Anya Geist, 12Worcester, MA
Poetry-Nighttime
Night
The stars stood gleaming Like sequins On a black cloth The moon came to rest On the surface Of a pond The grass swayed From side to side Like a rocking horse The night was as quiet As an empty page. Mae Gesser, 9Brooklyn, NY
Night and Day
Night is dark and mysterious. Every soul is asleep. Even the tiny baby birds don’t make a sound for we know the moon is quite big its falling, glowing gaze from up above. The stars are bright. The fairies dance under the twinkling lights. In the moonlight, God casts a spell on the glowing Earth to make the sun peek out from behind the clouds again and again. After the darkness has gone, a big yellow ball of fire emerges from the sky. Everybody is awake except the owls who sleep and don’t make a hoot. Birds fly everywhere and tweet their melodies. Butterflies flutter with excitement and dance along. The sky is painted blue like a canvas. The sidewalks are warm under my feet. It is time to shout and play! As evening approaches, God casts a spell to make the starry night appear again and again. Hannah Parker, 12 Burlington, VT Caitlin Goh, 8Dallas, TX