A Simple Truth

Stride out in a cornfield at night.
High above sing the rhythmical stars
In the heaving and natural dark,
Like pupa awaiting the Spring.
They glisten with dewy-eyed hope
In the comfortable shadows of shade,
Like splatters of snow on a road.

Back in the town they are fewer.
An optical illusion, they say,
Polluted by orange-hazed glow.
There, night is unnaturally bright,
A nervousness clouding the view,
Caught up in a nasty attack.
Perception is blinkered indeed.

Stars thrive in blackened conditions,
And gravitate more to the black.
They huddle like chorus line beauties,
Simpering on the large stage,
Giggling in self-conscious hope,
In front of the great velvet curtain.
One in the eye for the city.