For Caleb:

By

 

For Caleb:
Late March. Windows open, the distant and irregular melody of a baby's insistent yet weary cries are dropping
like pebbles into a muddy spring pond. 
It is a protest campaign lost into the lacy twilight
of a standard-issue Tuesday, 
dogs barking from their fence posts and birds chirping in thorny branches nearby.
He is all vowels and raw oxygen.
Reminding neighbors the necessity of mother.
Silence.