The Cranes, Texas January - by Mark Sanders
I call my wife outdoors to have her listen,to turn her ears upward, beyond the cloud-veiledsky where the moon dances thin light,to tell her, “Don’t hear the cars on the freeway—
it’s not the truck-rumble. It is and is notthe sirens.” She stands there, on decka rocking boat, wanting to please the captainwho would have her hear the inaudible.Her eyes, so blue the day sky is envious,fix blackly on me, her mouth poised on questionlike a stone. But, she hears, after all.January on the Gulf,
warm wind washing over us,we stand chilled in the winter of those voices.