Mark Wagenaar

Small Hours

I whistled out the window
for the dog & remembered

he’d been gone for two
weeks. Leaves corkscrewed

above well-kept lawns
into an evening sky hazy

with contrails. The scent
of cedar wafted past me,

borne on the faint echoes
of distant car horns.

Out of what lack or doubt
have I stayed? I turned

to face the kitchen when
a plaintive owl-cry pulled

me to the window, the evening
darker now as the owl called

from one distance into another,
& I saw the spark of a firefly’s

tail, the moon’s dull glimmer
beating against the glass.