When I was a child,
magic lived in the world–
not illusion,
not pretend,
real magic.

Magic filled warm summer nights
when I leaned on my window sill
and whistled softly
my four-note tune,
through the screen.
I repeated it several times,
waiting for the night
to bring something unknown
something extraordinary.
This was my ritual,
my magic ritual.

As a youth–
different house, different sill, different screen–
I continued to whistle into the night,
breeze ruffling my summer-bleached hair,
still believing in the magic.

Last week,
I stood at the screen door of the condo
and again whistled those four simple notes
out over the darkened city;
I still believe
and wait.

Text and image © 2012 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.