Evening
Sounds are never close at night.
Sounds are always miles away.
Sounds are like the whispers and roars of the sea. They
slowly swell and churn and crest but then
recede and bleed away into the air.
They’re the skeletons and tombs of a split second noise life,
cast out and up and left to shout its own name to the stars.
The stars don’t listen.
The stars just watch.
Tiny twinkling pinhole inklings that pebbledash the
blanket of dark.
It puts itself down carefully.
Carefully.
It doesn’t want to disturb.
It slowly tucks us in and makes the moon keep watch.
A silvery warden amongst the stygian sky.
And the moon loses interest. It waxes and wanes as it
turns away from us.
It sees ours own specks.
These aren’t the stars. These aren’t my stars.
It gazes outward towards them. The stars just watch. Their
cold white glow mirroring its own.
It likes our specks.
It likes the way they move and rush and get all in a hurry.
So short so much to do.
So short.
So much to do.
