poem

 Birds of TwilightEvening birds convene in old trees, plotting crimes.In the twilight I can never actually see them,Squawking up there behind bruised leaves,Only their coming and going.All we ever know are voices.Mom and dad fighting late at night I never understood a wordA language beyond my graspI didn ’t even want to see the letters they usedHuddled on the last step of the staircaseListening, beyond the clutch of their living room light The scariest time is just after duskWhen the birds go silent.You can ’t tell what they’re up toIf they ’re even still there. Torn between an urge to keep quietSo as not to disturb this tentative peace And a gnawing longingTo scream with everything I ’ll someday be: “please come back!”The morning remains a source of great reliefTo this day I wake daily at dawn.To hear the trees still singing.6/22/23

Source: Buckeye Surgeon - June 22, 2023 Category: Surgery Authors: Jeffrey Parks MD FACS Source Type: blogs