My lullaby is the rumble of trucks as they cut through the town on their way to anywhere else. This is not a destination.
The horizon is an impassive witness. The brow of a hill, the curve of a road framed by firs. It watches you as you go about your daily business, crawling into adulthood then stooping back out the other side. Perhaps one day it will approach and share what it’s seen. For now, it slides further away if we, fools that we are, try to reach it.
Circles under Streetlights: Sometimes it’s funny what the light picks up