Late night

Some nights, I drive back from work as late as one in the morning. Those nights, I feel bereft. The sun is down, I have counted the three shades of darkness that coat the world. I coast past empty roads listening to some scratchy old song on the radio, my mind elsewhere, but still returning home.

I see drunk men. I see leaves swishing in the summer breeze. I see shadows passing along like whispers between lamp posts and bushes.

Late nights are beautiful. Silence gets a chance.