We never hear birds on a Sunday morning on the corner where I live

We never hear birds on a Sunday morning on the corner where I live.
Instead: the lurching buses, the rumbling trucks, the shouts —
the work week heaves itself out of bed, clears its throat, grumbles,
and begins again.

Today:
Silence.

Shabbat with no peace.

The death tour climbs —
a little girl among the staggering numbers.

Officials say this war could take weeks.
It will not be over in days.
And panic rises in me like bile.

I think of ways to live normally,
even in the face of the absurd abnormal.

But has it ever really been normal? No, not truly.
Even when we lived under the illusion of safety —
taking our kids to school,
having a drink with a friend,
heading to work,
sitting in the park,
doing laundry,
planning the week ahead —
even then,
there were enemies planning to destroy us completely.

Still,
we always look for ways
to just
BE.

Outside my window,
a white dove stares straight at me.
I stare back.

I am so tired.
My kid is still sleeping.
By now, the sounds of a Sunday morning should have woken him.
We should be on our way to school.

But it’s so quiet —
except for the long stretch of silence.

Maybe the dove is lost.

It doesn’t fly away.
And I don’t move.

The silence stays.
Not peace.
Not quiet.

But a long, tense, agonizing silence —
the kind that makes your body tremble,
like when you hold your breath long enough
for the light to dim
into a single, fading spark.

Just the world,
holding its breath.