Blind Night

The air is very still and I can’t decide whether it’s warm or cool. It feels warm when my hands are resting on the sparse grass I lie on, but faintly cool when I raise my right hand in question. There is no scent to the temperatureless air. The floor is hard on the back of my head, but the thin blades of grass are smooth as silk as I run them through my fingers. As I sweep my palms across the ground by my sides, I feel small broken twigs and the mildly crunchy leaves that come with the beginning of fall. The bark of the old tree beside me is slightly malleable, but feels as stuck to the trunk as if it were superglued on. The choir of crickets chirps harmoniously, forming a humming backdrop for the night. A lone cricket off to my left sings a contrasting solo every so often. A car zooms by every few seconds and the brakes of the busses squeak indicating the turn of a traffic light from yellow to red. An unidentifiable clicking sounds for half a minute. It sounds like the spinning wheel of a game show, fast with a gradual ritard into silence.

 

And this is night.

Reviews

[JC]

ah, brings me back to days where I would wander and lay everywhere and anywhere and just enjoy nature and life, you describe all the sounds and sights and feeling perfectly, you're a modern Rimbaud in an urban field....

[Lizardo]

Wonderful to read this poem, nice piece of work. and i must say also, nice description of the night

[Justin]

that was really great :) it has all the elements what a poem needs :)