All I hear are heavy noises:
Yawning and disturbed from
such deep slumber, it is night.
The time when giants wake and walk the streets,
and little people walk squeaking floors.

All I hear are little noises that pester
and tease:
The bird's requiem to the night’s death,
little claps of feet from people who think
you can hear more of them.
Like their mind’s whirring or
the hollow ringing of their heart.

But I cannot see their feet.
For the giants have dug
wells with their feet,
and the little people have told
all of this with their light, frightened calls.

The little claps remind me of
the little birds who play their love song
to the sun;
It is the giant’s lullaby.