Looking Out the Window

It’s past two a.m. and
I’m standing at my open window on the fifth floor, looking out into the night and
The cat is asleep on the recliner and
His peaceful little snores the only noise from inside the house and
I notice there is no moon, only some gathering clouds and a sad purple sky and
The wind is dancing with the neighbors’ curtains and the leaves of their plants and
I can smell the fragrance of flowers carried lightly on the air, as I always seem to at night, and
The soft sounds of the sleeping city, distant whirr of an air condition fan and maybe the creaking of a window swaying in the wind and
Dripping drops of water and rustling leaves and the cool whistling breeze every once in a while and
The road below, abandoned, left only to the stray cats of the night and the yellow of the streetlights and
Parked cars on the side of the street face the darkness alone and
I imagine all the neighbors snug asleep peacefully in their beds and
The only thing I can think of is this would be the perfect time to smoke a cigarette, if I smoked, and
I don’t dare put on any music or make a single sound and
I reach outside with my fingertips to feel the night air and
I wonder if this is how it is every night if only I’d take a minute to look out the window.

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