I remember how
I miss this time of night.
When the lights are stretched,
all the world looks black and white.
There are winds that don't blow, but cling
and sounds that don't break, but fall
and voices that don't call out, but trickle along.
I smell the murmur of cars as they sift through the dark
and I catch flying shadows
as they chase shadows that hide
in the silence for warmth.
This time of night I remember
there are things that listen without hearing
and there are things that whisper
without speaking.
It is cold, but only to the touch.
It is dark, but only to the reader.
It is quiet, but only to the sleeper.
It is the death of day
and it is dignified
ever deeper.
See Catherine St. and All A Circle to follow where my habit of night walking came from. This is essentially the analysis of it.
