Four A.M. on My Street

I sit on my front porch and look out on a silent street
Four A.M., not my usual time to be here
But the air is comfortable, moist without mugginess
Softened by a sunset storm only hours ago.

Thin shelled gumball size snails crawl everywhere
Far off sheet lighting shows the storm, probably over Miami
No planes are flying and the interstate is quiet
Except for an occasional long haul truck

Four bugs circle over the recycling bins and trash canisters
In the false light of the old fashioned street lamp
Small night bugs, not crickets hum softly
And I stare at my little dead oak tree

And at my silent street which will stir in two hours
With jangling crunching sounds of the garbage trucks
As they screech their brakes and gun their diesels
Moving fifty feet between stops

Followed shortly by the thump of newspapers on the sidewalk
And then by seven o’clock commuters, slamming doors,
Barking dogs, sleepy school children and fussy parents
But none of that is now, now is silent and empty.