A sudden rush of wings above your head,
behind your back, a voice whispers your name
but when you turn around, no one is there.
It’s night, you’re all alone―need more be said?
A fog horn moans out past the buoys while fled
is the music of every bird but the mournful “who”s
from one who asks no one. And just the same,
it’s night, you’re all alone―need more be said?
A doo-wop tune from a car dead ahead
croons of two lovers and a rendezvous
that never was. Today hushed your affair.
But it’s night, you’re all alone―need more be said?
Perhaps just this, those wings that rushed the air?
Except the owl, every bird had flown. In your hair
there’s a smell―like rue.