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.