A singular streetlamp in the distance,

an orange glow behind the trees

like a star enmeshed in the branches,

illuminating a shadow—a child

in the empty playground, on the swings,

head rested on the chain, alone,

singing to the silent night, to the

streetlamp by the seesaw,

a low melody the wind seems to repeat

not far from where a lone owl stands

by its home—the navel of an oak

listening to these voices, hooting,

also yearning for a friend.