Sanctuary hours.

Sometimes I see people, too. They bask in the glowing, orange lamplight. Sometimes I make eye contact with them. Sometimes they talk. "Good evening," they say politely.

Erudite-looking people. Bright eyes, black shoes. I give them a smile and nod. There are some times of night when it just doesn't feel right to talk. There's something sacred about the few hours suspended hazily between night and day.

I wonder what they think, these wanderers of the night, of my scraggly hair and bleary eyes and ashes I tap out from half-lit stubs. Maybe they think I'm a nutcase, mental... or maybe they're out for the same reasons I am. Probably not.

But I can pretend that all these listless vagabonds, insomniacs, wanderlust-inflicted people, can hear the misfit birds chirping, too, singing many hours before the rest will. The birds that missed the trip southward, or perhaps came back a little early just to keep me company.

Just so they could break the chilled silence of my walk back, reminding me that not all is numbed like my fingertips, that there's still something to say even when I forget how to speak.