In the hour of creeping light—too late to call insomniac—I trace the highways of sleepless sweat over my body to the chirping song of a lone bird. Are we the only ones awake before downtown roars anew? Pilots must be yawning thousands of feet above. The occasional car rattles by. It’s Wednesday, trash day, and the trucks are coming. In dreams I can’t recall and in songs seeking an avian ear, I always wonder if the two of us are searching at a time when no one wants to be found.

Arthur Klepchukov

was born between Black Seas, Virginian Beaches, and San Franciscan waves. He adores trains, swing sets, and music that tears him outta time. Follow Art’s writing journey at @ArsenalOfWords on Twitter, or read his words in The Common, Necessary Fiction, Third Wednesday, and KYSO Flash.

Author’s blog: Arsenal of Words