The Quiet Hour

It was the quietest of hours.
Made of still moments.
It was long past the time the last noises
Had shuffled into their various holes.

A car dared pierce the silence and break a thought in two.
One more took its place.
Thoughts are well-oiled and assorted in the hushed hour.
They fluttered in and out of the skull which tried to probe them...
And turn them inside out.

It is moments like that when we resurrect the gone day.
We paw and pick at its remains.
Then place the bones-of-that-day, gently, into the memory box.

That silence wasn't modest.
It wordlessly told me to take note.
To listen and be aware.
I stared darkly into its darker heart.
Step inside, it said.
Listen and be aware.

Then a barrier of stirring sounds
Placed itself around the hush.
Sounds, at other times, we'd search for.
That would comfort us through such quiet hours.