Dark, cold air seeps in
through ancient screens
through old window panes.
The sun has just set
and light can no longer
shine through the void.
Voices are young,
filling the lit room
just as the cool air mingles
with the warm.
Laughter hangs in the air
like the sticky humidity,
though tinged with innocence.
The sound dies down
to a dull roar
of semi-trucks and late-night birds.
Until again, hours later
older voices, boisterous
and slurred break through
and bombard the night.
These sounds are discordant
and defiant, the air now sweet
and intoxicating with
the coming morning dew.
Until soon it grows light and
sound is again deferred to the
expertise of the birds.