After around five
o'clock, six, at least
seven—comes the sound
not of silence, per say
but the rush of city
traffic going down
trading places, maybe
with a dawn river rising
somewhere in Myanmar.
As today's newly
minted flowers, now drowsing
in the heavy dusk
and for whose
inaugural yawn there were
no witnesses
so too, stooped shadows
have mysteriously gathered
under the tall door frames
two, three, at least
four hairs grown whiter,
perhaps to match that
formidable peak
of the tallest mountain
in Nepal.
By eight o'clock,
one by one, the robins'
last calls are
disappearing,
and you and I
must now listen softly
to each other's
music in the
dark for a while.
