Can't call it day,
can't say it's night,
on one hand it's not dark enough,
on the other, it's not light.
The only thing that can be said,
is there are deep gray shadows on the snow,
and it is cold out there,
... in January.
Even more, and maybe less,
it's deathly quiet,
like an overwhelming riot,
of too much silence.
Nothing spoken,
so much said,
... at Four O' clock,
... A.M.
The job has it's rewards,
those moments are the best,
like every job, I guess...
- - -you live with what is thrown your way,
and deal with the rest,
as you learn to love, and treasure,
- - - that modicum of pleasure.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Tiny pleasures...like being among the first to see the sunrise...like hearing the birds twitter at 3: 30 am during the Spring...like being able to listen to the hum of electric lights...because you can actually hear them...and them alone...the joy of not worrying about traffic when you're in a hurry to get to someone who needs your help at 3 am...cat naps...of course...that would never be me...: -) Being able to drive until you think you are going to reach the edge of the earth...and then looking up...and not being able to look down again...because you're mesmerized by all those stars... These my friend...these are some of the joys of shift work. Thanks for this one Barry! Hugs, Dee