Friday night on Ridge Avenue

    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.


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