It is the dead of night,
i sit in awe of the noises
still being made.
No filters on the reverberations.
Exhaust echoing off of now cool black top

Tires spinning too fast as breaks pump.
The chirp of nightingales
playing holler back.
Even the dew seems to whistle
as it drips from top to bottom leaf.

The spark of my lighter
triggers tracer memories
bon fire dances, in the moonlit dark.

Before i let myself question
the bickering laughter of siblings
awake long after the sun has left,
i remind myself the neighbor is terminal.
While i am busying myself, trying to hush my memories
and drift to sleep…
they are trying to squeeze as many memories as will fit with in a second.

I whisper prayers from the shadows of my porch…
“If it be to your purpose Lord,
might you grant the unspoken whishes
hidden in the laughter coming from these wounded hearts”