On this Mediterranean night with its light breeze br scented with the sun-warmed herbs br drifting down from cooling, stony hills, br a million stars you’ve never seen before br shine on a million crickets singing br as if from eternity to eternity br br and you cannot say, and there’s br no need to say, which is which; br the trembling of the stars, br the susurration of cicadas, br join as in endless praise br of the imagination of their maker br who made imagination too br br and though the cicadas, singing, may never know br that the stars they sing to br are shining from a thousand years ago br and though the stars may never know br that the cicadas that they shine upon br are a thousand years here from their now, br br it’s all known, to the mind that made the vines br that made the grapes that made the wine br singing in my veins tonight br like cicadas susurrating in the starlight br as you hear them now br this night, this night of endless miraclebr br Michael Shepherdbr br