Sunday night. Faint sirens paint the town.

I am thinking of the forest at the city limits,

of tall pines creaking in the still air. How long
they have stood there waiting for the osprey

to return and fix their nests. Some will

arrive at first light, any day. Now, as you rummage
for the earplugs you've lost beneath the rubble

of sheets and pillows, their hearts are beating

over the Mediterranean.
Sirens drown out the sound of running water

coming from the kitchen- the sound of you

filling the glasses we will roll over and reach for

and lift to our mouths in the dark.