Faint, high-pitched mewling whimpers. And again.
Rattles, and rustling. In thin pajamas
and bare feet, I crouched by the bannister,
wondering: cat? crying? television?
Rumbling. A man’s voice. No man was downstairs,
just the babysitter, so it must be
the TV, right? I waited, chilled. Voices.
A door opened, and closed, and then silence.
I waited, listening even harder.
Rosefire Rising 