A November night, after the rain,
and the country highway has a slick sheen
that glosses darkly, like an obsidian pane,
and beyond it lay a nocturnal Autumn scene.
The moon is buried in a shallow grave
of clouds like black soil, spread over all,
but there are no more cadence rains, save
for the droplets on trees and eaves, slow to fall.
A dull green glow from a distant houselight
illuminates an absconded backyard revelry
of empty lawn chairs, a canopy wound tight,
and the twisting branches of a tarantula tree.
Rows of houses, side to side on either side
and shoulder to shoulder, or apart, in kind,
but all crowd toward the highway as if to hide
from the dark hills lurking just behind.
Soon the brick walls of the local school
are glimpsed here and there as the drapes of Night
are pinned back by each bright electric spool
atop lampposts which glow with pale light.
No one passes upon this lonesome road
nor are houses lit with restless souls;
it is a ghost highway, like the stories of old—
a place where the silence of the world tolls.
And mists dream non-thoughts along the highway,
roaming like ghosts in constant, aimless drift;
a lethargic mob lost, purposeless and led astray,
floating as the world dies away,
and the woeful winds lift.