When I cracked the window to cool
my sister’s fevered body, birds
were already singing and their song

solace with so much death inside.
Bare limbed trees stood around the house
in the near dark dawn. Next midnight,

snoring sounds come from her
hospital bed. Her husband has
climbed inside beside her, both

snoring. I have to reach
across him, syringe in hand
to press the hourly morphine

and Ativan under her tongue.
My face is wet. The trees
lean in. I feel them in the dark.