The trills
They come
In twos
Or threes, but
Never more
Sequentially.

‘cuz after
The dark
Inhibits sight,
And thought is
Lost in
Night,

The call
Of a
Needy girl-
Her mows jarring
But pleasant-
Reverberate.

She is
Gone, lost.
But where
Did she go?
One can’t
Know

For certain
Where she’s
Gone to
Hide. Her meows
Are desperate,
Waning.

With the
Pull of
The moon’s
Gravitational push and
Earth’s pull
She

Limps along
All night.
Her patters
Of the footfalls
She leaves
Continue.

Sleep is
Lost, missing.
For how
Could I sleep
When she’s
Stuck?

All around
Her presence
Can be
Heard, her voice
Felt. Try
Harder

And you
Too could
Hear the
Pitiful mewls bouncing
All around
This

Creaky home.
The owls
Do hoot
On the off-beats
In which
She

Stills: hope
Diminished, not
Yet gone.
When the
Northern cardinals and
American crows
Call

Out their
Birdsongs and
The crickets
String their violins
To play,
That’s

When we’ll
Stumble around
Sleeplessly up
And down the
15-stair
Climb.

She will
Be found
For sure.
If not by
Us then
By

Someone who
Can echolocate
Expertly to
pinpoint the current
place she
resides.