It was 1 a.m. and the dark house was filled with the quiet of the hour.
Only I moved in the house from one room to the next until I sat on the edge of my bed, the side closest to the window my own.
I squinted in the darkened room to see if there was much moonlight outside, and that is when it startled me.
Eerily piercing the darkness, the silence, as though it were noon and not the wee hours of the night, a bird’s melodic offering.
Again and again, over and over, he sang. No one else joined in, with me as his only audience.
And I wondered why.
Was he practicing for the luring of his love on the morrow?
Was he seeking solace for some sadness he’d suffered earlier in the day?
Was he pontificating about things only he seemed to understand in a language that far too few bother to learn anymore?
Was he cheerily telling the young ones asleep hours ago of stories from his youth?
Was he from out of town and jet lagging like so many when arriving to a new place?
Was he without vision and the darkness could not pierce his spirit?
Did he sense me there on the other side of the bricks, sitting all alone and lonely in the darkness?
I’ll never be quite sure why he sang, but I listened to his offering, unable to sleep. I wanted to hear his story, to hold it in my hands. I wanted to know why he had to sing despite everything conventional saying he should not.
Thank you for piercing the darkness with your song and opening my eyes to the light, sweet one. Your song reminded me of brighter days and evenings lit by lightning bugs. Your song soared among the clouds and landed on my heart.
Sleep well, little friend. Until we meet again.