where the writers are
On the Concourse

On the Concourse
It’s still now,
Between midnight and daylight
And all I hear is the wind.

The tree across the street drags its branches across the bricks
Empty plastic bags rustle across the sidewalk.

But past that, there’s another layer
A circle away from me
Where the sound of tires on concrete
Rises and falls as cars come and go
Their lights pulling across my ceiling
In an arc.

A siren pushes through
Sweeping up to the light
And then gone, the echo left hanging
Over the courthouse.

Somebody is walking a dog.
Somebody is pushing a stroller,
Shushing a tired toddler.

And all I hear is the wind.