Feral tongues rise in whispered shades.
Nighthawks lift in dark air making
fair game of evening space. The time of
planning fills the room, settling on
the first sigh of sleep until dreams
slip to the floor.
Long talks have little effect on what
actually gets done, as words spin in
empty pockets like vortices
There might be a blessing when
nothing fills the thoughts, but little done
can fail on hope, for what lives just past