Wake

Two in the morning. The ceiling has nothing new to say. The refrigerator hums its one long note.

Three. I turn the pillow over, searching for a cooler country. The dark lies thick and even this side of the half-world.

The forecast was right about June. I should stop checking old weather.

Four. My thoughts circle the room like moths with nowhere to land. Even the streetlight outside seems to be nodding off.

Five. The clock insists the night is nearly over. The window gives back only the room. The clock must be wrong.

Then -- from the courtyard, a lark.

There are no larks in California. I know this. Still, she sings, unhurried and far too certain, as if she means to sing the dawn awake.

Maybe I dreamed her. Maybe a mockingbird learned her part. Either way, the window is turning grey now.

I let my eyes close.