The sky clears. Nightcrawlers pop as they clear the moist surface. I wait by the road, sipping whiskey from a pint-sized mason jar, and try to recall voices not heard in many years. Stars slip back and forth across the dome of the sky, some leaving trails. In the distance, a fox pauses - sniffs the air - and continues.
Who goes alone can start now and just might. Yet who travels with another must wait. Who navigates logistics? Who promises what they cannot give? We sing an old song - and shuffle a little dancing - taking off our clothes - as we do from time to time as the moonlight requires.
One, two hours of it and he stumbles inside to write. He is always writing. He is always lying. He gets weepy in the third stanza, wondering how he will sleep. For she gets inside and he cannot rest but only pace in the darkness, like something caged.
Yet the moment passes. She is out there somewhere: the one who will allow him finally to rest. He thinks of bluets, the moose he tracks, the heron that waits on him, and the shoulders of the one where so briefly he was home. How he longed to see her naked and how his longing seemed somehow redemptive. I goes outside again, a little further from the house, where it is colder and wilder, quieter, and still.