City At Twilight

A poem

Photo by Alex Wigan on Unsplash

The plaintive bird outside is invisible,

not perched on the church spire,

nor in the palm trees below that shade the café;

it calls and calls, as if it’s lost something

I can only guess at, something

I, too, grieve for. The bird and I

grasp at the sky, call in a language no one else

understands. In the light-fall dusk

a brief shadow flits past my window,

voice silenced now, and I linger

to watch the darkening sky.