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.