The only sound in the bedroom is the
turning of a page.
First you, then I.
Then, a clearing of the throat,
a small sigh.

A slight shift in the bed
allows me to tuck the blanket
around your exposed
left shoulder.
"Thank you," you say, and continue
to read Camus.

A train's wailing warning at a distant
intersection
intrudes,
Yet also comforts.
Like the loon's polite, yet distinct, call
on a rainy night.

Here we are, side by side,
snug and smug;
bundled by
the quiet elegance
of serenity.