On late summer evenings,
I straddle the edge between awake and asleep,
lights all out and
windows open wide.
The wind,
tired of lining out leaves and branches that refuse to stay straight,
sidles into my bedroom,
knocking around the blinds and
checking some papers on the dresser
before wandering back out.
I know these nights are not the time to make plans.
They are only for listening --
to the faint, minor tones of a near wind chime, and
to the plaintive chirrup of a nearer cricket.
Listening to the rustled whispering of dreams queueing up.
But mostly, listening to
tomorrow settling in to wait until dawn.
For hope is a morning bird,
but peace hides in the shadows of dusk.
