by C.R. Manley
I walked out into the parking lot at midnight
and scared a jackrabbit twice as big as you.
It sat absolutely still for a moment,
its long stiff ears straight up,
watching me with its sad, dark eyes
before it loped away slowly between cars.
No one else around. Everything quiet and still
except a whisper of cars on the freeway
and one or two stars twinkling high above the city.
I went back into the hospital, up to the room
where your mother was asleep, resting
from the effort of bringing you into the world.
In trees just outside the window were dozens
of tiny birds sleeping among the leaves
like soft gray fruits. The breeze was strong enough
that trees swayed and branches shivered
and birds shifted positions in their sleep.
Somehow they kept their balance,
their eyes closed, and some with their heads
tucked under their wings, waiting
those few short hours for daylight
and their chance to sing.