At the far reaches of my hearing
a police siren pulses into the night
for no good reason, I suspect, while
some critter rustles in the bush next to me
catching me off guard.
Suddenly, as if from a time when
day never ended
the cry of a hawk pierces the night.
Elsewhere, the high-school field sits green,
dreaming of absent frost.
What a strange thing it is,
to be human and awake at night,
a life where every corner,
every flagstone, every garage door,
can be the subject of a poem.