by Margret Hoskins
The grandmother clock on the west wall
ticks the kitchen quiet.
The windmill halfway down to the ancient barn
creaks the night still.
I turn on the faucet where the pump used to be:
sound of Niagara Falls echo from the glass.
The moon slides out from under the clouds
streaking the linoleum gold.
A cricket chirping behind the pantry door
lets me know I am not alone,
conspires with gentle breathing from the back bedroom
to make a friend of this quiet.