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Night Song
The room lies vague beyond the small glare of the tensor lamp. Two circles of light cluster like daisies in the blackness beyond the window: one's a neighbor's porch light, one's down further, by the road. The darkness hums even-paced under your snores irregular as a dripping tap, jagged as thunder. What is there to see in a dark house? Refrigerator's whirring and clicking, two cars going past, one right after the other. More for the ears than the eyes. The dog shifts in his sleep, bumps the door, our child rustles in his blankets. Only the old hamster creeps over to his plastic wheel and starts the nightly run on his red wheel through Siberian fields of grain that toss and quiver as quietly, as edibly, as sleep.