Just Before Dawn

Some call it “the magic hour,”

When darkness lies heavy like a blanket.

From the silence beyond the circle of lamplight

Comes no sound but whispers of the night.

The old house creaks and groans

After a day on arthritic knees and

A sympathetic hoot owl calls back softly.

A night hawk swoops past, tires humming, 

At the end of a long interstate week

Or on the drunken weave home from

The after-hours bar out on Route 10.

Every so often, at the edge of hearing,

Echoes the faint cry of the woman next door

As she answers the angry call of her mate.

Just before dawn, sirens scream and

The world sighs in its sleep.

Some call it “the magic hour.”

I call it insomnia.

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Written for One Shot Wednesday.