Each night, as the world falls asleep,
the moon prepares for a fete of symphonic enchantment.
Come my stars and listen,
to the music of the night.
For very few can hear it,
but those who do,
dance.

And on cue, the song commences, in a percussional affair.
A doe is running, thudding, drumming, in a steady rhythmic beat.
The stars begin to twirl.
In enters a croaking bass, singing with gusto from his marshland home,
accented by a treetop friend, belting a relentless query, “who?”
In the sky, dawns a celestial waltz.
As the tune escalates to a forte, breaking through the air with might,
a soprano wolf howls a haunting melody, harmonizing with the wind.
Step-two-three, spin-two-three.
Exploding through the night, with a desperation to be heard,
sings a chorus of chirping twilight birds, the envy of all forest choirs.
The stars are spinning, spinning, spinning.
The song bursts out its final bit, like fireworks of music,
the world is blessed another night with the magic of the forest performers.

The piece is slowing now; the stars begin to tire.
The moon applauds her woodland friends, for another enchanting song.
And although very few could hear it,
those who did,
danced.