Stars fall from the black canopy tops of the forest I used to trespass in as a child, finding the definition of apparition and swamp and UFO.

Coyotes break the sound barrier over the water of the river that I used to fall in, pick bugs out of.

I find myself lying awake in the small hours of the morning, thorns pushing into my back and jail birds clanging the chains around the branches of the trees above me, the sky shaking to the tune of their wails and wings flapping desperately, cracks of heat lightening rattling them alive.

Night is the loudest color. I find this through broken flashlights. I find this through "Do Not Enter" signs. Hear me. Hear me. Hear me.