Marie Gauthier

Night Watch

The owls at 2am are foghorns blasting 
from all directions, a territorial round 
robin of discord.

The summer-scented woods feel incendiary, 
with yellow-eyed guardians at each 
compass point

and a mossy muffled stillness as smaller 
creatures pause to taste the wind—
Is there iron in the air?

The kids in their cots sleep so soundly 
I can’t hear them breathe, take 
that breathing on faith 

as I take so little… I could add flesh 
to the bones of this ever-latent worry, dress 
it up in feathers, fur, blood 

diamonds—but why? Under every taut
thread you’ll still find dread sucking
its own marrow.

Even the mouse knows, its scritching 
in the cabin’s walls stopped dead—
we listen together 

to what the owls might teach us 
about staying alive, hoots cresting 
into a dark choral 

brocade, a slip stitch of sound 
closing over us.

Back to Issue IX…