[it was that dead time of night: the time when all good farmers had had dinner and were safely ensconced in vinyl lounges watching reality tv; the time when the stray cats are quiet and even the night birds aren't ready to talk.
The road was empty and the verge smelled of dead grass, of dry grass and silence and dust.
To the east stood the sodium-lit roundabout, aglow in the warm dark. To the west, a black cloud stretched away beyond the hills to an imagined coast, a place of wrecks and craggy loneliness, of seafoam in the lungs.
A black breeze teased the black leaves; a car swung down a distant road and the lights from the house scattered pebbles like coals among the graveled shoulder of the tarmac.
This was what it was to be here, complete: to not want.
All that mattered was to stay on this verge, watching for the blacker-than-black shadow of a slumbering steer by the fenceline; listening to the car, which drew no closer; and feeling the wind play in the folds of my dress—feeling lighter than light, and lighter than death]
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