After the Beach

There is something about driving in the dark. . .

Headlights questing, the car runs along the road through the trees. It is falling, falling, I feel, as the music plays. "Just like a faucet that leaks, and there is comfort in the sound." (Loneliness is the memory of a person I amputated from my life. Failure is the inability to forget.) Here, as dusk falls, we both sing.

Through the trees, the sky fades from pumpkin yellow to milk blue to charcoal. Soon, the feathery silhouettes of the redwoods are indistinguishable from the sky itself. We hurtle through the forest and never stop to greet the other travelers. The mountain doesn't seem to mind the tickle of tires.