Insomnia

    Sometimes the songs of birds sound mechanical, like a buzzer or some kind of alarm whining to itself in solitary desperation. At central depth of night, our surroundings ring like ancient neon lights, crying with mournful triple-strength at the brink of death. Random people, invisible behind the evergreens, associate coquettishly, blind under the impression that minus the sun, they are together alone. Triumphant carriages launch into departure, with full orchestras resounding from their famished bellies and bottomless urges. And despite the low gurgle of bass and bulbous tuba, the music shines classy under the witnessing stars. The blue gloss of daytime falsehood lies as a sheer coating, smudged but transparent still. And the devious undertakings of one too many hours ago point their minute hands at the fateful hour. Thus, night’s chalky skeleton can be seen through the thin skin of the day.

    There is a cricket who resides directly outside our bedroom window. He loves to fiddle away throughout the darkest hours until the break of dawn. When light begins to creep woozily over the rumps of the hills, he puts away his coarse instrument and falls into a pleasant slumber. What a royal life the cricket lives. He is our closest neighbor and alternates between serenading us into a state of utter bliss, and driving us slowly insane. It is a day in the night of Insomnia!


Jennifer Burnside