It was the night highway.

A place between diners.  Where

neon signs slept and traffic didn’t exist;

an area absent of social politeness.

A place where answers came from dreams

and shadows had influence.  Where empty

lots and lost dogs crowded near the last

highway sign.


Drive on while tires turn the miles like a

leaky faucet drips a water clock past midnight

and shoulders bear the burden.


He rolled down the window.  Cold desert air

fanned him.  He knew the wind was full of

wolves, opening the eyes of the moon.

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