Early Night

In early December
singing under the hedge
of verbena beside the porch.

What lies the sun tells
of a few leaves stripped of their color,
parenthesis of rust on the hinges of the car door.

High wisps of clouds
lit up by something
that has fallen.

The edge of a storm front
faintly coming, a change in the smell
of the air, a quiver in the wind.

The incipient darkness, smooth as licorice.
The only light in the house
the one in the closet that’s been left on.

The house quiet except for
the gnawing in the attic.
The sound of a sound

that can barely hold the weight
of being heard, a remnant
that ripples down the hallway

into the room where
you slept. Your books still
dozing on the shelves waiting for you

to open them, or whatever
it is you will do
when you get back to what you left.