When To The Sunset

April 15, 2012      James Hayes Nichols
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We drive, synapse-fast, the air pink and heavy and green bugs moth up the windshield and grammaws clog up the fast lanes and the roar of the cars roars louder than the bugs, and sweat mingles with bug juice in the lockerroom evening.  A pall falls over the city:  a gray blanket, a wet newspaper, a kiss, a sigh.

The moon.

The rainfragrant night.  Cool with the rainfragrance, streets minerally and soft, a jet engine roaring low, shaking the soaked earth, lulling the deer and possum into the night with fog rising behind, foggy roadtrip night critters soughing the road under thunder pouring—under God—a thunderclap of peace.

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