The Cranes, Texas January

I call my wife outdoors to have her listen, to turn her ears upward, beyond the cloud-veiled sky where the moon dances thin light, to tell her, “Don’t hear the cars on the freeway— it’s not the truck-rumble. It is and is not the sirens.” She stands there, on deck a rocking boat, wanting to please the captain who would have her hear the inaudible. Her eyes, so blue the day sky is envious, fix blackly on me, her mouth poised on question like a stone. But, she hears, after all. January on the Gulf, warm wind washing over us, we stand chilled in the winter of those voices.