Fingertips of day are losing their grip.

Pink horizons darken

the sound of a saxophone fades.

Stars poke through the black curtain

like pinholes in the fabric of time,

the moon hovers benign and besmirched

its surface pocked and shaded.

Silence is golden.

But there will be no riches tonight

screeching interrupts my sleep

the foxes are mating.

then the coyotes over the ridge sing;

it’s a glorious night.

Too glorious to sleep, it seems.

I sit with a cup of tea

my fingers curled around the smooth

mug, relaxed and I watch

expectantly towards the east.

A saxophone heralds the prelude

then slowly the curtain opens.