What compels the soul, From the bed to dole? From boots to door, For a midnight stroll?

The crack of gravel rhythm, Brings crickets from lull to listen. And the gleam of glimmering stars, Casts just enough hope for vision.

Suddenly, a rustle breaks the hush, With a crack from the thicket brush— Every sense parallel with each stalk of corn, Every reason to fear, yet absent to rush.