Member Poem

Out there,
in the dark between trees,
the owl calls—
low, deliberate,
like he’s naming something
he hopes still hears him.

No answer.
Just the echo
folding in on itself.

I lie still,
listening.
Not to the sound,
but the pause that follows—
wide as the sky
and lonelier.

He calls again,
less certain this time.

And somehow,
sleep comes.
Not with comfort,
but with the ache
of knowing
I’m not the only one
calling into the dark
hoping something
will call back.