You must be open to everything, he tells me as I walk out onto the porch to count stars and burn lungs with the sweet south. There is a great silence in noise watching blue screened television through blinds, and absorbing the hum of garage door lights making a mirage on wet pavement. Rain trickles, as if slow moving rivers, into the grate. Water dripping from the wood beneath my feet vibrates like the inner sanctum of a clokkemaker, the gears in my head constructing time stealers. I hear 18 wheels on the wet curves, air in brakes signaling the solemn fact that these small towns go ghost on Sunday’s at six. All that is left are the strangers gliding over tangles of highway, silver-backed foxes low slung in hunt. With nimble fingers, even in the damp coming winter, I tell him sadly, but with conviction, There are no stars tonight, no stars.
Aleathia Drehmer 2008
Published by LitteraTour 12/08 (Translated into Portuguese)