only the hum of crickets. Distantly, the passage of eighteen-wheelers. Some nights, emergency sirens and flashing lights. When I can't go back to sleep, I turn toward the window. I don't get up—I just lie there. Maybe I'm waiting for the moon's milky light to come through the blinds; maybe, the flap of wings or a shingle's rattle. Some noise, any welcome noise to let me know there's still a chance the thing I wish for most could arrive, though as of now, I have not heard anything.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.