What Was Written

Long night. Sleepless. I heard an owl, its call filtering through the tall trees, writing itself on the lush silence. Other sounds followed reverently, a moth whispering its powdery presence somewhere in the room, then, the soft padded footsteps of a possum walking gently across the rooftop of an evening back into silence. I tapped into the private conversations the house was having with itself, the creaks and groans, the stifled gurgle bubbled up from a troubled pipe and from downstairs, an unknown bump that gave no hint of cause. The house carried on with this chatter for hours then fell quiet and perfectly still. Later, I heard the dampened throb of a locomotive coming in and out of earshot as it skirted the far reaches of the dawn, then a screech of car brakes from a nearby street causing the nerves to brace. Too soon morning comes with its hurry, erasing the silence upon which this was written. Time now for sleep.