when and where are they?
We turned onto the highway going far too fast with the lights out, every light. The dashboard was wiped clean, my face, the windows grimy and the thought of a deer leaping from the shadowy trees that lined the thing hovering between our ears. At least mine. Beside me he was foot to the floor, aching for more, a baseball bat and tennis ball in his trunk and a hill far away on his mind. He got there and whooped at the moon.
We had defined the moon earlier.
We saw the lights, how they waited for us to pass beneath them like their children and get wide-eyed when they dripped up and out and over. Out. They would go. On. They would come.
On.
Off.
On.
Off.
1.
7.
I’ve lost count.
15.
27.
I’ve stopped counting.
When we find ourselves beneath the street lights they stare at us and blink, here and there like the animals that come out at night. We stare back and scratch our dirty heads.
For the life of me I don’t know what is going on.
