The irony of the dark continent

I want to know the names of all whose cries float through the burglar bars, the open windows after sundown, here. Missing the noises of home, their unfamiliar voices weave a night-song in a rhythm different than my own; whoever arranged this nocturnal calling-out knows nothing of crickets mixed with raccoon chatter, or the over-full throats of bullfrogs breaking the heat, boastfully beneath a July moon. There—something like a cuckoo laid down over a rustling too big for an opossum, and silence, in all the wrong places. Slow-dancing is out of the question. This sallow night on a hill above a city I do not love holds me back, locks me out, even as I am locked in. Even from the forgiving darkness, even from the night.