poem

 Birds of Twilight

Evening birds convene in old trees, plotting crimes.

In the twilight I can never actually see them,

Squawking ominously behind bruised leaves,

Only their coming and going.

All we ever know are voices and tones

Mom and dad fighting late at night 

I never understood a word

Language beyond my grasp

Huddled on the last step of the staircase

Listening, beyond the clutch of their living room light 

The scariest time is just after dusk

When the birds go silent.

You can’t tell what they’re up to

If they’re even still there. 

Torn between an urge to keep quiet

So as not to disturb this tentative peace 

And a gnawing longing

To scream: please come back

The morning remains a source of great relief

To this day I wake daily at dawn.

Just to hear the trees singing

6/22/23