I do not know if it is the movement or the action,
that finds me walking.
My mother was a cricket; my father a cicada
The world passes a drilling through one ear
and comes out a chirp the other.
The mottled wood of the community trees
glows yellow in the lamplight;
the wind mutters in the branches above me;
the heavy tires of a car roll home.
The feel of bark against my skin
reassures me.
The stars do not shine often in this city,
But tonight the dim glow of the sky
fades its way through the cover of clouds.
If I squint, I may make out
what might be a sign of something.
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