At This Hour

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
Every hour supposedly tells a story- 3a.m. Tells us the story of the night, and the creatures in it.

Submitted: November 22, 2012

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Submitted: November 22, 2012

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This clock- this old, carefully crafted, victorian clock... It tells more than time, my dearest friend- it tells more than the hour of the night and day. It's inside tells us a story. The deep gong at every hour is the clock's voice, telling us wonderful and horrid stories.

Our clock today tells us the story of 3 a.m... no, not 4 a.m., no, not 8 p.m.- 3 a.m.- A very dark, mysterious hour- in which the most curious of things really, truly occur.

A night does not go by, so fast that the things that happen in this night, go unrecognized. Men, out on their horses- we know they are there- but do we give it a thought? Shouldn't we be thinking of their intentions? But- no- we don't. We let it come in our minds- for no more than a split-second- before we spit it back out, as a baseball player does tobacco. An owl, cooing and hollering, and their prey, screeching and begging- no thought. It slips through our heads once more- the thought of "Why the mice? Why the harmeless scavengers?"

The violin of the crickets, so late in the night- Have you wondered, my dear companion? Why these beautiful noises have been shamed to the dead of night? Why they have been casted off as irritating, why the makers of the noises are considered so arrogant? A child, deep in a slumber, tucked in the hearth of her home- safe from almost all harm- except her own mind, which runs wild with her worst fears and her horrid dreams. Why do we sleep- no, why do we await sleep- if we know that it only brings our imagination to the brink of reality?

Why the men? Why the prey? The sad yet beautiful sounds of the crickets? The child? Why these things- why this hour? That is your question, my friend? I fear I have no answer, my dear, but only a question which would trigger the same thoughts-

Why not this hour?


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