In the long quiet of the afterhours,

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. 

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