know the souls of the city
count stars instead of sleep
match their eyes to the intensity of darkness
reflection, shadows, treetops
this is how the day dies, a light, alighting softly
light doesn't always reveal everything
the slow-walkers can tell you how much you are missing
the flutter of a hummingbird as it treads from flower to another
in your back-garden while you are bent, chasing away moles
the sleepless can tell your age
by the number of stars they have seen make a constellation in your eyes
they can lead you out of the dangers of the night
entertained by the mad music that rustles with snoring
they take your hand and page you through a book
chronically registering laughter and futile cats wandering the streets
blessed are those who do not sleep
for they are the time-keepers of the night
and we, sleepers, realize at day-break our loss.
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