End

[rejectomorph]

The last hour of darkness is passing. Someone turns on a porch light. The sky recedes, and fragments of streetscape leap out-- a facade, a section of picket fence, the boles of trees, the corner of a roof, a swath of gray pavement, a mailbox. Alla re frozen in the sudden light. Distance grows darker. A door softly clicks. Someone emerges to search for a newspaper that hasn't arrived. I watch from my shadowed porch. They don't know I'm here. It feels a bit like watching a fish swimming in a tank. Not finding their paper, they return indoors and the light is extinguished. The concealed world is mine again.

My eyes grow re-accustomed to the night. A small point of light I took for a planet draws rapidly nearer, but remains as silent as some distant celestial orb. Unblinking, it glides eastward. As it passes overhead, the faintest hint of sound trails it, like a distant roll of thunder at the very edge of hearing. A moment later it is gone, and the departing light winks out. Journeys are always taking place. I hear a car turning onto the block, see the quick flash of empty yards swept by headlights. I go back inside as the car passes. Closing the door, I hear the slap of a newspaper hitting a driveway up the street. It's all starting again. It's all being taken away.