Molasses House

What is that sound?
Within the winds’ rustling of the leaves.
In the darkness as drizzle dropped from the clouds.
A song, a signal sung from high up in the trees.

What is that sound?
The sun has long ago left to enlighten a world away.
Silent skies now free from the jet engines.
Still backyard pools – allowed to be just bodies of water.

Yet what is that sound?
Chirping from a restless nest.
Singing a song for the sun despite the night.
Cascading through this starless galaxy.

What is that sound?
Does this bird not know it’s the midnight hour?
Whistling a tune meant for tomorrow.
Playing a symphony to an audience of none.

As I sit perched on a short stone wall.
Ears drifting towards the wind.
Hands absently catching splashes of rain.
Honing in on a ballad from this hidden force of nature.

What is that sound, that signal this bird sings?
Drifting down to me when I should be asleep.
Rising and falling between breaths and sighs.
Playing a symphony to an audience of me.