Faint Wail

Washing a fork, the tines bright and wet,

when the sound begins. A rising tear

of noise, far off. A distant threat.

Someone's end, or start, is near.

It climbs, then holds, a thin, taut line.

My hand, still clutching metal, stills.

What unseen tragedy, not mine,

moves through the night, past the hills?

Then it drops. Just like that. Gone.

The prongs still drip. The water runs.

Nothing left but the slow, gray dawn.

And a feeling, like a prayer, unsung.