Driving Home with the Moon

Harsh orange, bright dots line the middle of the road. We sway on little hills, up and down, riding the waves. Gold streetlamps are distant sentinels, reminding us we aren’t alone with the surrounding black silhouettes. I’d rather be alone.

The big, yellow ball rises, defining the black silhouettes as pine trees. The waves stop. We ride lower. Silver metal walls us in with a dip in temperature. As a child it was a black concrete river, flowing us through. The current is swift. The land climbs up again and the road chatters to us in a clunking rhythm. Silver necklaces glimmer in the headlights, stretched out against the tree tops. Small green living lights stare at us in passing. To race or not to race? Please don’t race.

The yellow ball has turned milky-white. Flashing green lights invade her space. Red tail lights distract. Crotchety buildings sit square and useless, roofs rotting, paint scraped. Ugly outskirts.

Blue and gold smears of water color and thud, thud, thud of bridge chatter. Quiet roads, more like paths. Leaning towers of short needles dangle above, awaiting their season to fall. Gold streetlamps are now close sentinels, lighting up shaggy oaks. The white moon sits high. Hound howls give goosebumps that nighthawks and crickets soothe. Sweet breeze, sweet familiar shadows.

Home sweet home, finally.