The night.

Slowly it sweeps over us, peeking out from behind the horizon, warning that another day will soon be gone–that time has passed us once again.

That it always wins.

We scramble to get the chores done, our dinners served and dishes cleaned.

Our babies bathed and tucked in tight.

And as we sing the first few lines of a familiar lullaby, the black cloak is draped and the moon rises outside our windows so humble, so unassuming that we often miss it as our eyes grow heavy and our breath evens out and the weight of the darkness creeps over our roofs.

And when the moon makes its way up to center sky, the wind grows calm under its rays, the grass stoops low and the night creatures with eyes that flash from the hillsides and from deep in the brush make plans for an unnoticed life.

So the civilized turn in, shut doors, move locks and draw curtains, hoping this time, tonight, to keep the quiet out.

But out here the quiet is loud…

…so loud…

Because once the last of the coyotes finish their star serenade, they laugh as they leave us with nothing.

Nothing but the silence that envelops us and screams the things we cannot be, the places we will never go, the people we will never hold, the words we should have never said…

..the words we should have delivered instead.

So we reach for our loves, pull covers up tight, curse at the clocks and turn on our TVs to drown out the calm…the silence.

We whisper.

Our words prick the air.

We squeeze our eyes tight against it.

And under this blanket of black we lay on our backs and fight the dark with thoughs of the morning…

…and dream of the things we could be…

…if only the night would wait.