(I wrote this in June, and forgot to post it.)
At 4:10 am it’s still dark. It’s quiet, the quietest it gets during the entire day. All the neighborhood dogs are asleep. The house no longer creaks and pops as it makes the transition from a ninety-degree day to a forty-seven degree night. If people are driving, they are doing it far from this neighborhood. Even the male mockingbird guarding his nest has not started up his song yet. There are no televisions running, no washers or dryers, no lawn mowers. The neighbor’s children are sleeping and their basketball lies quiet underneath its basket stand. Even, at last, the wind has fallen still.
I shift position and hear the sheets rub against my leg. If I lie with one ear against the pillow, I can hear my own heartbeat. The house is silent, but the bed frame rubs against the headboard with a quiet groan.
It’s dark and cool. I lie awake, but not for long. I know when I wake again the room will be filled with pre-sunrise light, and the crows will be calling.