Night Sounds
© 2009
Dan Johnson

Night sounds offer their own song,
owned only by the night.
they sound like
the last verse, of the last song, sung
by the bluesman going his way to the vastness of the dark.

Night sounds sing their torch songs differently,
some happy, some sad and many lost and lonely,
trapped in nighttime snare.

I hear the wind blow off the beach coming my way.
I hear it in the trees, bending branches, but never breaking.
I hear the wind as it whips the northeast corner of my house.
It lifts the eaves, pressing like a weight lifter, feeling the strain,
creaking, groaning… then in a heartbeat, plop… it drops

in the morning, I go out to inspect for damage, a few shingles on the ground,
no sign of damage that I can find, but I let the landlord know, so he can do his own thing, which is nothing.

Nothing like the sound of the ocean roaring it’s sonnet of despair,
rolling in rolling out… every day and every night. The sound is always
the same, even from my shack, a block a way… deep into the night, the sound is always
the same; a blue green splash on white sand waiting patiently to fold its wetness
into her lovely fold… not fair to interrupt this erotic interlude of night sounds.