Restless mind syndrome

Not quite four in the morning. I’ve been awake over an hour, lying in bed cataloging the aches and pains, the racing heart beats and respirations. Sleep is unlikely, and while I yawn, there is no chance I will quiet.
I’ve moved to the deck. I’ve coffee in my third favorite mug. Two street lights and the light of this screen and I can see the street wet from the lawn sprinkler over spray, the red sedan parked across the street and the bronze glow of the city skyline.
But the sounds. Crickets,  trilling away invisible and loud. The drone of air handlers on top of nearby buildings. The clatter of vehicle wheels over the expansion joints in the overpasses. The hum of tires on pavement, the rev of car engines.
A large white dog, shepherd variety, slinks along the edge of street, sniffing at the bushes. No sounds to be heard as it disapears under the lilac hedge.
Just me and that dog and the drivers of those distant, invisible but audible cars. Coffee has gone lukewarm. From the deck below the smell of cigarette smoke. One more awake. Who else is out there, passing time until dawn?
Do the crickets stop their  sounds with the light? Or does the noise of the day drown them out? When does deep night become predawn? What are they (we) thinking, the ones awake while others sleep?
Have another cigarette invisible night watcher. I am heading indoors, shutting the door, silencing the night again.