It’s That Time

The silence of night hours is never really silent. You hear the air, even when it doesn’t stir. It’s a memory of the day. Nothing stirs. Memory lags. No traffic hushing up and down tricky hills among the camphor trees. No foghorns, no streetcars’ shrilling phantoms before they emerge from tunnels. These absences keep us alert. No rain or street voices, nobody calling to someone else, Hannah, you walk the dog tonight yet or what?