The night is never really quiet,  
You hear the breeze even
as it shifts all around you.
It is the memory of the day
recalling all that has happened,
Nothing stirs. Memory ebbs.
No shuffling of feet, no voices
talking without speaking.
No traffic rushing up
and down the streets,
among the palm trees.

Absence keeps us alert,
with only certain things to hear,
The movement of the trees,
a slight tug of the waves
of thought, breaking on
the shore, only heard in silence.