“Swamp donkeys are on the prowl again they looking for a warm place to lay.”

Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam,  
The swamp donkeys wade through whispering steam,  
Ears tall as cattails, eyes aglow,  
They trundle quiet, soft and slow.

Through tangled reeds and willow shade,  
A chorus of crickets serenely played.  
The donkeys’ coats are earthy brown,  
Muddied from marshes that tried to drown.

Their brays are gentle, deep and low,  
Echoing round where wild lilies grow.  
They seek a patch of velvet sod,  
A place unwatched, unchilled by fog.

They nose through ferns, with careful grace,  
Each searching for their warming place.  
A hollow under cypress trees,  
Shielded from the evening breeze.

Night’s hush enfolds the swampy glen,  
Soft-footed hooves make trails again—  
Swamp donkeys, roving, never tame,  
Here long before wild humans came.

So if a midnight breeze you feel,  
And catch a braying, faint and real,  
Remember, in that misty bay,  
Swamp donkeys dream ‘til break of day.

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