She perches on her bed
Like a bird
Blankets and comforters swirled around
Her legs like a nest.
Taking in the serene grey of the walls,
The white lipped windows.
She waits for the clouds to disappear.
The night awakens
Trees have gone dark
No more sunlight their branches catch
The moonbeams sit on the sill.
As she starts to settle in
She listens to the cicadas
Chatter and whisper,
having secret conversations.
The thud of her own heartbeat
Interrupting their whispered stories.
For comfort, she looks to her friends
Trying to find solace
In silly constellations.
But the old grandfather, big dipper
Is always slightly in the way
Obstructing her view
Out of large portholes.
As sleep finally overtakes her.
She startles awake to a whack
As her window flies open
The hinges giving way to the force of wind
as the frame slams into the wall.
With heart pounding and a dream being forgotten
She scurries out of her sheets
Sniffing the soft, fresh air
As she closes the window.
The cicadas still whisper.
She envelops herself in quilts once more
Wondering if the cicadas
Become tired, or if their voices die out.
If they nibble and taste the wild Chamomile
To soothe their throats
While the melodious crickets take their place
Or if they share secrets in euphony.
On that thought she floats into sleep once more.
Sometimes the alarm that wakes her
Turns into a hiss
Maybe static, possibly just her imagination
She glances at the soft glow under her door
Aware her family is awake as well
Even now feeling alone
She still has