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Nights, we don't talk much.
Those with beds take
some measure of sleep, their hands
hardening in the cold dark air,
ears stopped against
the wind's consistent negations
except for those moments
in the ordinal hours
when some bird, alarmed
by nightmare or predation,
comes to knowledge of itself
beyond the scope of its small
and fine-boned imagination,
sending out its call brief
but recognizable, sudden,
aloft, across the fields–
we wait for that,
hope's music or something
like it, what trains the ear
to hear in day.