Anticipation

We sit here watching in the yellow glow

Of fires across the mountains, where the thump

Of bombs exploding might be heard.  We know

The screams of victims still are muffled.  We jump

At every breath of wind, to measure heat,

And strain inside our memories for signs

Of safety.  The moon slices a sliver, discreet

Against the orange clouds, a force that lines

Forgotten names upon our expectations—

And hours bump into our fears, like fish

Against our thighs in languorous tides,

Ones we cannot distinguish, imagining the worst.

Until at last the dawn shoots out its rays

And warms the sky, at last, the yellow haze.