Thin strips of curdled orange hang on the horizon, intersected by the spindly fingers of leafless tree limbs. Shadows scurry after the setting sun, fleeing the thick black clouds to the east and it reminds me of humanity. Brief, fleeting, triumphant in the face of annihilation.
I unlock my truck and get in; the vinyl seats are a tangible reminder of winter’s lingering hold. I turn the key and the engine whirs and the radio comes to life. I drive four point seven miles - three lights, four exits, five more lights, a stop sign - and I’m home. The windows are all dark, the last remnants of orange gone. The heavy wave of night has fallen.
No comments:
Post a Comment