Winter’s night, the town
is asleep, even the drunk’s
ululation is silenced by the
cold. Sporadically, crackers burst, a signature of euphoria
downed suddenly by an onrushing wind, and night’s
wiliness. In the room, the temperature swings like a mood. I
contemplate the whims and the fluctuating ways of the world.
Quiet. In this hushed mood
what else is left but anonymity, curse of wilderness, the barking of stray dogs?
